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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFOItt 

AT    LOS  ANGELES 


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iA, 

usrary, 


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"The  horrid  ilmur  pursues  ray  soul  — 
It  stands  before  me  now  !  " 
The  fearful  Hoy  looked  up,  and  s.-iw 
Huge  drops  upon  Ins  brow. 

El  GENU    UtAM.  —  1' 


IJJTd    1 1 )."» . 


Br 


POEMS 


By  Thomas  Hood, 


O'SI 


New  York 
Crowell   cc   Co.    C1884 


T 
CONTENTS. 


POEMS. 

PAGE 

The  Plea  of  the  Midsummer  Fairies 15 

Hero  and  Leander 55 

The  Elm  Tree  :  A  Dream  in  the  Woods 82 

The  Dream  of  Eugene  Aram 98 

The  Haunted  House :  A  Romance 106 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs 119 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt  ..JWtT'. 123 

The  Lady "s  Dream  126 

The  Workhouse  Clock  :  An  Allegory 129 

The  Lay  of  the  Laborer 132 

Fair  Ines 135 

The  Departure  of  Summer 137 

:-  Ode:   Autumn   142 

Bong,  for  Music 144 

Ballad  L45 

Hymn  to  the  Sun 1-46 

.'   Autumn 1  17 

To  a  cold  Beauty 117 

Ruth lis 

Ballad Mil 

1  Remember,  I  Remember 150 

Ballad 15] 

The  Water   Lady 152 

To  an  Absentee 153 

Song 154 

Ode  to  the  Moon loo 

To  ir>7 

The  Forsaken 1 . .- 

J— Autumn 159 

Ode  to  Melancholy 160 

C9) 


10 


CONTENTS. 


Sonnets. 

Written  in  a  Volume  of  Shakspeare 164 

To  Fancy 164 

To  an  Enthusiast 165 

"It  is  nut  death,  that  sometime  in  a  sigh" 165 

"  r.\  ever)  sweet  tradition  of  true  hearts  " 166 

i)n  receiving  a  Gift 166 

Silence 167 

"  The  curse  of  Adam,  the  old  curse  of  all " 167 

"  Love,  dearest  lady,  such  as  I  would  speak  "....' 168 

The  Lee  Shore 

The  I  teath  lied 169 

Lines  on  seeing  my  Wife  and  two  Children  sleeping  in  (he  same 

Cham  her 170 

To  my  Daughter,  on  her  Birthday 171 

To  a  Child  embracing  his  Mother 171 

Stanzas 17-J 

To  a  False  Friend 173 

The  Poet's  Portion 171 

Time,  Hope,  and  Memory 17."> 

Song 175 

Flowers 178 

To 177 

To 178 

To 179 

Serenade 179 

Ballad 180 

Sonnets. 

To  the  Ocean 180 

Lear 181 

Sonnet  to  a  Sonnet 181 

False  Poets  and  True 189 

To 182 

For  the  Fourteenth  of  February 183 

To  a  Sleeping  Child 183 

"  The  world  is  with  me,  and  its  many  cares  " 184 


HUMOROUS    POEMS. 

Miss  Kilmansegg  and  her  Precious  Leg 187 

A  Morning  Thought 262 

Love  and  Lunacy "*>-* 

Morning  Meditations 2C9 


, 


I 


CONTENTS.  11 

A  Tale  of  a  Trumpet 291 

No! 316 

The  Irish  Schoolmaster 316 

To < 325 

Love 326 

The  Season 327 

Faithless  Sally  Brown  :  An  Old  Ballad .  k-V.:;. 323 

Bianca's  Dream:  A  Venetian  Story 330 

Over  the  Way 339 

Epicurean  Reminiscences  of  a  Sentimentalist 343 

The  Carelesse  Nurse  Mayd 345 

Ode  to  Perry,  the  Inventor  of  the  Patent  Perryan  Pen 346 

Number  One,  versified  from  the  Prose  of  a  Young  Lady 352 

Lines  on  the  Celebration  of  Peace 354 

The  Demon-Ship 355 

Spring:  .A  New  Version 359 

■s/Faithless  XellyGray:  A  Pathetic  Ballad  .  .t-V.\." 361 

The  Flower 364 

The  Sea-Spell 364 

A  Sailor's  Apology  lor  Bow-Legs 369 

The  Bachelor's  Dream 371 

The  Wee  Man  :  A  Romance 374 

Death's  Ramble 376 

The  Progress  of  Art 378 

A  Fairy  Tale 382 

The  Turtles:  A  Fable 3-6 

Love  Lane 391 

Domestic  Poems. 

I.  Hymeneal  Retrospections 393 

II.  "The  sun  was  slumbering  in  the  west,  my  daily  labors 

past " 394 

III.  A  Parental  Ode  to  my  Son,  aged  three  Years  and  five 

Months 395 

IV.  A  Serenade :i'i7 

A  Plain  Direction 398 

Equestrian  Courtship nil 

An  Open  (iuestiou to-J 

A  Mack  Job 407 

Ode  to  Rae  Wilson,  Esquire 415 

A  Table  of  Errata 430 

A  Row  at  the  Oxford  Arms 434 

Etching  Moralized:  To  a  Noble  Lady Ill 

Ode  on  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Clapham  Academy 449 

A  Retrospective  Review 153 

Fugitive  Lines  en  Pawning  my  Watch 456 


1 2  CONTENTS. 

The  Broken  Dish 458 

Ode  to  Peace:  written  on  the  Night  of  my  Mistress's  Grand 

Rout 459 

Pompey's  Ghost:  a  Pathetic  Ballad 401 

Ode  to  Dr.  Hahnemann,  the  Homoeopathist 464 

Ode  for  St.  Cecilia's  Eve 409 

The  Dost  Heir 475 

Those  Evening  Bells 480 

Epping  Hunt 481 

The  Stag-eyed  Lady  :  a  Moorish  Ballad 498 

A  Legend  of  Navarre .' 503 

A  True  Story 509 

Moral  Reflections  on  the  Cross  of  St.  Paul's 510 

A  Valentine 518 

"Please  to  ring  the  Belle" 520 

A  Recipe  — for  Civilization 520 

The  last  Man 525 

Backing  the  Favorite 533 

The  Mermaid  of  Margate - 534 

As  it  fell  upon  a  Day 539 

The  Fall  of  the  Deer 540 

December  and  May 541 

A  Winter  Nosegay 542 

She  is  far  from  the  Land 543 

Tim  Turpin:  A  Pathetic  Ballad 546 

The  Monkey  Martyr:  A  Fable 549 

Craniology 551 

A  Parthian  Glance 557 

Jack  Hall 559 

A  Butcher 568 

"  Don't  you  smell  Fire?" 509 

The  Volunteer 571 

The  Willow 575 

John  Trot:  A  Ballad 

Conveyancing 

I'm  not  a  Single  Man 56  1 

The  Burning  of  the  Love-Letter 588 

The  Sub-Marine 589 

Pain  in  a  Pleasure  Boat :  A  Sea  Eclogue 592 

Literary  and  Literal 59  I 

A  Good  Direction 598 

Mary's  Ghost:  A  Pathetic  Ballad 599 

A  Report  from  below 601 

Lines  to  a  Lady 605 

Reflections  on  a  New- Year's  Day 607 

Rondeau:  Extracted  from  a  well-known  Annual 608 


( 


THE    PLEA 


O  V 


THE  MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES. 


(13J 


TO   CHARLES   LAMB. 

Mr  deaii  Friend  :  I  thank  my  literary  fortune  that  I  am  not  re- 
duced, like  many  better  wits,  to  barter  dedications,  for  the  hope  or 
promise  of  patronage,  with  some  nominally  great  man  ;  but  that 
where  true  affection  points,  and  honest  respect,  I  am  free  to  gratify 
my  head  and  hearl  by  a  sincere  inscription.  An  intimacy  and  dear- 
ness,  worthy  of  a  much  earlier  date  than  our  acquaintance  can  refer 
to,  direct  me  at  once  to  your  name;  and  with  this  acknowledgment 
of  your  ever  kind  feeling  towards  me,  I  desire  to  record  a  respect  and 
admiration  for  you  as  a  writer,  which  no  one  acquainted  with  our 
literature,  save  Elia  himself,  will  think  disproportionate  or  misplaced. 
If  1  had  not  these  better  reasons  to  govern  me,  I  Bhonld  be  guided  to 
the  same  selection  by  your  intense  yet  critical  relish  for  the  works  of 
our  great  Dramatist,  and  for  that  favorite  play  in  particular  which 
has  furnished  the  subject  of  my  verses. 

It  is  my  design,  in  the  following  Poem,  to  celebrate  by  an  allegory 
that  immortality  which  Shakspeare  lias  conferred  on  the  Fairy  my- 
thology by  his  Midsummer  Night's  Dream.  Hut  for  him,  those  pretty 
children  of  our  childhood  would  leave  barely  their  names  to  our  ma- 
ture]- years;  they  belong,  as  the  mites  upon  the  plum,  to  the  bloom 
of  fancy,  a  thing  generally  too  frail  and  beautiful  to  withstand  the 
rude  handling  of  Time  :  but  the  i'oet  has  made  this  most  perishable 
part  of  the  mind's  creation  equal  to  the  most  enduring;  he  has  so 
intertwined  the  Elfins  with  human  sympathies,  and  linked  them  by 
so  many  delightful  associations  with  the  productions  of  nature,  that 
they  are  as  real  to  the  mind's  eye  as  their  green  magical  circles  to 
the  outer  sense. 

It  would  have  been  a  pity  for  such  a  race  to  go  extinct, even  though 
they  were  but  as  the  butterflies  that  hover  about  the  leaves  and 
blossoms  of  the  visible  world. 

I  am,  my  dear  friend, 

Yours,  moBt  truly, 

T.  Hood. 


("> 


THE  PLEA  OF 
THE   MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES, 


Twas  in  that  mellow  season  of  the  year 

When  the  hot  Sun  singes  the  yellow  leaves 

Till  they  be  gold,  and  with  a  broader  sphere 

The  Moon  looks  down  on  Ceres  and  her  sheaves ; 

When  more  abundantly  the  spider  weaves, 

And  the  cold  wind  breathes  from  a  chillier  clime ; 

That  forth  I  fared,  on  one  of  those  still  eves, 

Touched  with  the  dewy  sadness.of  the  time, 

To  think  how  the  bright  months  had  spent  their  prime- 

So  that,  wherever  I  addressed  my  way, 

I  seemed  to  track  the  melancholy  feet 

Of  him  that  is  the  Father  of  Decay, 

And  spoils  at  once  the  sour  weed  and  the  sweet ;  — 

Wherefore  regretfully  I  made  retreat 

To  some  umvastcd  regions  of  my  brain, 

Charmed  with  the  light  of  summer  and  the  heat, 

And  bade  that  bounteous  season  bloom  again, 

And  sprout  fresh  flowers  in  mine  own  domain. 

It  was  a  shady  and  sequestered  scene, 
J, ike  those  famed  -aniens  of  Boccaccio, 
Planted  with  his  own  laurels  ever  green, 

(15) 


16  TITF,    FLEA    OP 

And  roses  that  for  endless  summer  Mow; 
And  there  were  fountain  springs  to  overflow 
Their  marble  basins  ;  and  eool  green  arcades 
Of  tall  o'erarching  sycamores,  to  throw 
Athwart  the  dappled  path  their  dancing  shades; 
With  timid  conies  cropping  the  green  blades. 

And  there  were  crystal  pools,  peopled  with  fish, 
Argent  and  gold ;  and  some  of  Tynan  skin, 
Some  crimson-barred  ;  —  and  ever  at  a  wish 
They  rose  obsequious  till  the  wave  grew  tliin 
As  glass  upon  their  backs,  and  then  dived  in, 
Quenching  their  ardent  scales  in  watery  gloom  ; 
"Whilst  others  with  fresh  hues  rowed  forth  to  win 
My  changeable  regard,  —  for  so  we  doom 
Things  born  of  thought  to  vanish  or  to  bloom. 

And  there  were  many  birds  of  many  dyes, 
From  tree  to  tree  still  fifring  to  and  fro, 
And  stately  peacocks  with  their  splendid  eyes, 
And  gorgeous  pheasants  with  their  golden  glow, 
Like  Iris  just  bedabbled  in  her  bow, 
Besides  some  vocalists,  without  a  name, 
That  oft  on  fairy  errands  come  and  go, 
AVith  accents  magical ;  —  and  all  were  tame, 
And  pecked  at  my  hand  where'er  I  came. 

And  for  my  sylvan  company,  in  lien 
Of  Pampinea  with  her  lively  peers, 
Sate  Queen  Titania  with  her  pretty  crew, 
All  in  their  liveries  quaint,  with  elfin  gears ; 
For  she  was  gracious  to  my  childish  years, 
And  made  me  free  of  her  enchanted  round; 
Wherefore  this  dreamy  scene  she  still  endears, 


THE    MIDSUMMER    FAIRIES.  17 

And  plants  her  court  upon  a  verdant  mound, 
Fenced  with  umbrageous  woods  and  groves  profound. 

"  Ah,  me,"  she  cries,  "  was  ever  moonlight  seen 
So  clear  and  tender  for  our  midnight  trips  ? 
Go  some  one  forth,  and  with  a  trump  convene 
My  lieges  all !  "  —  Away  the  goblin  skips 
A  pace  or  two  apart,  and  deftly  strips 
The  ruddy  skin  from  a  sweet  rose's  cheek, 
Then  blows  the  shuddering  leaf  between  his  lips, 
Making  it  utter  forth  a  shrill  small  shriek, 
like  a  frayed  bird  in  the  gray  owlet's  beak. 

And,  lo  !  upon  my  fixed  delighted  ken 
Appeared  the  loyal  Fays.     Some  by  degrees 
Crept  from  the  primrose  buds  that  opened  then, 
And  some  from  bell-shaped  blossoms  like  the  bees. 
Some  from  the  dewy  meads,  and  rushy  leas, 
Flew  up  like  chafers  when  the  rustics  pass  ; 
Some  from  the  rivers,  others  from  tall  trees 
Dropped,  like  shed  blossoms,  silent  to  the  grass, 
Spirits  and  elfins  small,  of  every  class. 

Peri  and  Pixy,  and  quaint  Puck  the  Antic, 
Brought  Robin  Goodfellow,  that  merry  swain  ; 
And  stealthy  Mab,  queen  of  old  realms  romantic, 
Came  too,  from  distance,  in  her  tiny  wain, 
Fresh  dripping  from  a  cloud  —  some  bloomy  rain, 
Then  circling  the  bright  Moon,  had  washed  her  car, 
And  still  bedewed  it  with  a  various  stain  : 
Lastly  came  Ariel,  shooting  from  a  star, 
Who  bears  all  fairy  embassies  afar. 

But  Oberon,  that  night  elsewhere  exiled, 
W  as  absent,  whether  some  distempered  spleen 
2* 


I 


18 


THE   PLEA    OF 


Kept  him  and  nis  fair  mate  unreconciled, 

Or  warfare  with  the  Gnome  (whose  race  had  been 

Sometimes  obnoxious)  kept  him  from  his  queen, 

And  made  her  now  peruse  the  starry  skies 

Prophetical  with  such  an  absent  mien  ; 

HowOeit,  the  tears  stole  often  to  her  eyes, 

And  oft  the  Moon  was  incensed  with  her  sighs  — 

Which  made  the  elves  sport  drearily,  and  soon 
Their  hushing  dances  languished  to  a  stand, 
Like  midnight  leaves  when,  as  the  Zephyrs  swroon, 
All  on  their  drooping  stems  they  sink  unfanned,  — x 
So  into  silence  drooped  the  fairy  band, 
To  see  their  empress  dear  so  pale  and  still, 
Crowding  her  softly  round  on  either  hand, 
As  pale  as  frosty  snowdrops,  and  as  chill, 
To  whom  the  sceptred  dame  reveals  her  ill. 

"  Alas  !  "  quoth  she,  "  ye  know  our  fairy  lives 
Are  leased  upon  the  fickle  faith  of  men  ; 
Not  measured  out  against  fate's  mortal  knives 
Like  human  gossamers,  we  perish  when 
We  fade,  and  are  forgot  in  worldly  ken, — 
Though  poesy  has  thus  prolonged  our  date, 
Thanks  be  to  the  sweet  Bard's  auspicious  pen 
That  rescued  us  so  long!  —  howbeit  of  late 
I  feel  some  dark  misgivings  of  our  fate. 


"  And  this  dull  day  my  melancholy  sleep 
Hath  been  so  thronged  with  images  of  woe, 
Tint  even  now  1  cannot  choose  but  weep 
To  think  this  was  some  sad  prophetic  show 
Of  future  horror  to  befall  us  so, — 
Ut  mortal  wreck  and  uttermost  distress, — 


THE    MIDSUMMER   FAIRIES.  19 

Yea,  our  poor  empire's  fall  and  overthrow,  — 
For  this  was  my  'long  vision's  dreadful  stress, 
And  when  I  waked  my  trouhle  was  not  less. 

"  Whenever  to  the  clouds  I  tried  to  seek, 
Such  leaden  weight  dragged  these  Icarian  wings, 
My  faithless  wand  was  wavering  and  weak, 
And  slimy  toads  had  trespassed  in  our  rhigs  — 
The  birds  refused  to  sing  for  me  —  all  things 
Disowned  their  old  allegiance  to  our  spells  ; 
The  rude  bees  pricked  me  with  their  rebel  stings  ; 
And,  when  I  passed,  the  valley-lily's  bells 
Rang  out,  methought,  most  melancholy  knells. 

"  And  ever  on  the  faint  and  flagging  air 

A  doleful  spirit  with  a  dreary  note 

Cried  in  my  fearful  ear,  '  Prepare  !  prepare  ! ' 

"Which  soon  I  knew  came  from  a  raven's  throat, 

Perched  on  a  cypress  bough  not  far  remote, — 

A  cursed  bird,  too  crafty  to  be  shot, 

That  alway  cometh  with  his  soot-black  coat 

To  make  hearts  dreary  :  for  he  is  a  blot 

Upon  the  book  of  life,  as  well  ye  wot !  — 

"  Wherefore  some  while  I  bribed  him  to  be  mute. 

With  bitter  acorns  stuffing  his  foul  maw, 

Which  barely  I  appeased,  when  some  fresh  bruit 

Startled  me  all  aheap!  —  and  soon  1  saw 

The  horridest  shape  that  ever  raised  my  awe, — 

A  monstrous  giant,  very  huge  and  tall, 

Such  as  in  elder  times,  devoid  of  law, 

With  wicked  might  grieved  the  primeval  ball, 

And  this  was  sure  the  deadliest  of  them  all  ! 


20  THE    PLEA    OF 

"  Gaunt  was  he  as  a  wolf  of  Languedoc, 
With  bloody  jaws,  and  frost  upon  his  crown  ; 
So  from  his  barren  poll  one  hoary  lock 
Over  Ins  wrinkled  front  fell  far  adown, 
Well  nigh  to  where  his  frosty  brows  did  frown 
Like  jagged  icicles  at  cottage  eaves; 
And  for  his  coronal  he  wore  some  brown 
And  bristled  ears  gathered  from  Ceres'  sheaves, 
Entwined  with  certain  sere  and  russet  leaves. 

"  And,  lo  !  upon  a  mast  reared  far  aloft, 
He  bore  a  very  bright  and  crescent  blade, 
The  which  he  waved  so  dreadfully,  and  oft, 
In  meditative  spite,  that,  sore  dismayed, 
I  crept  into  an  acorn  cup  for  shade  ; 
Meanwhile  the  horrid  effigy  went  by  : 
I  trow  his  look  was  dreadful,  for  it  made 
The  trembling  birds  betake  them  to  the  sky, 
For  every  leaf  was  lifted  by  his  sigh. 

"  And  ever,  as  he  sighed,  his  foggy  breath 
Blurred  out  the  landscape  like  a  flight  of  smoke : 
Thence  knew  I  this  was  either  dreary  Death 
Or  Time,  who  leads  all  creatures  to  his  stroke. 
Ah,  wretched  me  !"  —  Here,  even  as  she  spoke, 
The  melancholy  Shape  came  gliding  in, 
And  leaned  his  back  against  an  antique  oak, 
Folding  his  wings,  that  were  so  fine  and  thin, 
They  scarce  were  seen  against  the  Dryad's  skin- 
Then  what  a  fear  seized  all  the  little  rout ! 
Look  how  a  Hock  of  panicked  sheep  will  stare  — 
And  huddle  close  —  and  start  —  and  wheel  about, 
Watching  the  roaming  mongrel  here  and  there,  — 


THE    MIDSUMMER    FAIRIES.  21 

So  did  that  sudden  Apparition  scare 
All  close  aheap  those  small  affrighted  things  ; 
Nor  sought  they  now  the  safety  of  the  air, 
As  if  some  leaden  spell  withheld  their  wings ; 
But  who  can  fly  that  ancientest  of  Kin^s  ? 

Whom  now  the  Queen,  with  a  forestalling  tear 
And  previous  sigh,  heginneth  to  entreat, 
Bidding  him  spare,  for  love,  her  lieges  dear : 
'•'  Alas ! "  quoth  she,  "  is  there  no  nodding  wheat 
Iiipe  for  thy  crooked  weapon,  and  more  meet,  -^ 
Or  withered  leaves  to  ravish  from  the  tree,  — 
Or  crumbling  battlements  for  thy  defeat  ? 
Think  but  what  vaunting  monuments  there  be 
Builded  in  spite  and  mockery  of  thee. 

"  O,  fret  away  the  fabric  Avails  of  Fame, 

And  grind  down  marble  Caesars  with  the  dust : 

Make  tombs  inscriptionless —  raze  each  high  name, 

And  waste  old  armors  of  renown  with  rust : 

Do  all  of  this,  and  thy  revenge  is  just : 

Make  such  decays  the  trophies  of  thy  prime, 

And  check  Ambition's  overweening  lust, 

That  dares  exterminating  war  with  Time,  — 

But  we  are  guiltless  of  that  lofty  crime. 

"  Frail,  feeble  sprites  !  — the  children  of  a  dream  ! 

Leased  on  the  sufferance  of  fickle  men, 

Like  motes  dependent  on  the  sunny  beam, 

Living  but  in  the  sun's  indulgent  ken, 

And  when  that  light  withdraws,  withdrawing  then; 

So  do  we  flutter  in  the  glance  of  youth 

And  fervid  fancy,  —  and  so  perish  when 

The  eye  of  faith  grows  aged  ;  —  in  sad  truth, 

Feeling  thy  sway,  O  Time !  though  not  thy  tooth ! 


22  THE    PLEA    OF 

"  Where  be  those  old  divinities  forlorn 
That  dwelt  in  trees,  or  haunted  in  a  stream  ? 
Alas!  their  memories  are  dimmed  and  torn, 
Like  the  remainder  tatters  of  a  dream  ; 
So  will  it  fare  with  our  poor  thrones.  I  deem;  — 
For  us  the  same  dark  trench  Oblivion  delves, 
That  holds  the  wastes  of  every  human  scheme. 
O,  spare  us  then,  —  and  these,  our  pretty  elves. 
We  soon,  alas  !  shall  perish  of  ourselves  ! " 

Now  as  she  ended,  with  a  sigh,  to  name 
Those  old  Olympians,  scattered  by  the  whirl 
Of  fortune's  giddy  wheel,  and  brought  to  shame, 
Methought  a  scornful  and  malignant  curl 
Showed  on  the  lips  of  that  malicious  chin], 
To  think  what  noble  havocs  he  had  made  : 
So  that  I  feared  he  all  at  once  would  hurl 
The  harmless  fairies  into  endless  shade, — 
Howbeit  he  stopped  a  while  to  whet  his  blade. 

Pity  it  was  to  hear  the  elfins'  wail 
Kise  up  in  concert  from  their  mingled  dread ; 
Pity  it  was  to  see  them,  all  so  pale, 
Gaze  on  the  grass,  as  for  a  dying  bed ;  — 
But  Puck  was  seated  on  a  spider's  thread, 
That  hung  between  two  branches  of  a  brier, 
And  'gun  to  swing  and  gambol  heels  o'er  head, 
Like  any  Southwark  tumbler  on  a  wire, 
For  him  no  present  grief  could  long  inspire. 

Meanwhile  the  Queen,  with  many  piteous  drops, 
Falling  like  tiny  sparks  full  fast  and  free, 
Bedews  a  pathway  from  her  throne  ;  —  and  stops 
Before  the  foot  of  her  arch  enemy, 
And  with  her  little  arms  enfolds  his  knee, 


THE    MIDSUMMER    FAIRIES.  23 

That  shows  more  gristly  from  that  fair  embrace ; 
But  she  will  ne'er  depart.     "  Alas!  "  quoth  she, 
"  .My  painful  fingers  I  will  here  enlace, 
Till  I  have  gained  your  pity  for  our  race. 

"What  have  we  ever  done  to  earn  this  grudge 
And  hate  —  (if  not  too  humble  for  thy  hating  ?)  — 
Look  o'er  our  labors  and  our  lives,  and  judge 
If  there  be  any  ills  of  our  creating ; 
For  we  are  very  kindly  creatures,  dating 
With  nature's  charities  still  sweet  and  bland:  — 
O,  think  this  murder  worthy  of  debating !  "  — 
Herewith  she  makes  a  signal  with  her  hand, 
To  beckon  some  one  from  the  Fairy  band. 

Anon  I  saw  one  of  those  elfin  things, 

Clad  all  in  white,  like  any  chorister, 

Come  fluttering  forth  on  his  melodious  Mings, 

That  made  soft  music  at  each  little  stir, 

But  something  louder  than  a  bee's  demur 

Before  he  lights  upon  a  bunch  of  broom. 

And  thus  'gaii  lie  with  Saturn  to  confer,  — 

And,  O,  his  voice  was  sweet,  touched  with  the  gloom 

Of  that  sad  theme  that  argued  of  his  doom! 


'o 


Quoth  he,  "  We  make  all  melodies  our  care, 
Thai  no  false  discords  may  offend  the  Sun, 
Music's  great  master  —  tuning  every  where 
All  pastoral  sounds  and  melodies,  each  one 
Duly  to  place  and  season,  so  that  none 
May  harshly  interfere.     We  rouse  at  morn 
The  shrill,  sweet  lark  ;  and  when  the  day  is  done, 
Hush  silent  pauses  for  the  bird  forlorn, 
That  singeth  with  her  breast  against  a  thorn. 


21  THE    PLEA    OF 

"Wo  gather  in  loud  choirs  th~  twittering  race, 
That  make  a  chorus  with  their  single  note; 
And  tend  on  new-fledged  birds  in  every  place, 
That  duly  they  may  get  their  tunes  by  rote ; 
And  oft,  like  echoes,  answering  remote, 
We  hide  in  thickets  from  the  feathered  throng, 
And  strain  in  rivalship  each  throbbing  throat, 
Singing  in  shrill  responses  all  day  long, 
Whilst  the  glad  truant  listens  to  our  song. 

"  Wherefore,  great  King  of  Years,  as  thou  dost  love 
The  raining  music  from  a  morning  cloud, 
When  vanished  larks  are  carolling  above. 
To  wake  Apollo  with  their  pipings  loud  ;  — 
If  ever  thou  hast  heard  in  leafy  shroud 
The  sweet  and  plaintive  Sappho  of  the  dell, 
Show  thy  sweet  mercy  on  this  little  crowd, 
And  we  will  muffle  up  the  sheepfold  bell 
Whene'er  thou  listenest  to  Philomel." 

Then  Saturn  thus  :  "  Sweet  is  the  merry  lark, 
That  carols  in  man's  ear  so  clear  and  strong; 
And  youth  must  love  to  listen  in  the  dark 
That  tuneful  elegy  of  Tereus'  wrong  ; 
But  I  have  heard  that  ancient  strain  too  long, 
For  sweet  is  sweet  but  when  a  little  strange, 
And  I  grow  weary  for  some  newer  song ; 
For  wherefore  had  I  wings,  unless  to  range 
Through  all  things  mutable  from  change  to  change  ? 

"  But  wouldst  thou  hear  the  melodies  of  Time, 
Listen  when  sleep  and  drowsy  darkness  roll 
Over  hushed  cities,  and  the  midnight  chime 
Sounds  from  their  hundred  clocks,  and  dee])  bells  toll 
Like  a  last  knell  over  the  dead  world's  soul, 


THE    MIDSUMMER    FAIRIES.  25 

Saying, 'Time  shall  be  final  of  all  things, 
Whose  late,  last  voice  must  elegize  the  whole, — 
O,  then  I  clap  aloft  my  brave,  broad  wings, 
And  make  the  wide  air  tremble  while  it  rings  ! " 

Then  next  a  fair  Eve-Fay  made  msek  address, 
Saying,  "  We  be  the  handmaids  of  the  Spring, 
In  sign  whereof,  May,  the  quaint  broideress, 
Hath  wrought  her  samplers  on  our  gauzy  wing. 
We  tend  upon  buds'  birth  and  blossoming, 
And  count  the  leafy  tributes  that  they  owe  — 
As,  so  much  to  the  earth  —  so  much  to  fling 
In  showers  to  the  brook  —  so  much  to  go 
In  whirlwinds  to  the  clouds  that  made  them  grow. 

"The  pastoral  cowslips  are  our  little  pets, 
And  daisy  stars,  whose  firmament  is  green ; 
Pansies,  and  those  veiled  nuns,  meek  violets, 
Sighing  to  that  warm  world  from  which  they  screen  -, 
And  golden  daffodils,  plucked  for  May's  Queen ; 
And  lonely  harebells,  quaking  on  the  heath  ; 
And  Hyacinth,  long  since  a  fair  youth  seen, 
"Whose  tuneful  voice,  turned  fragrance  in  his  breath, 
Kissed  by  sad  Zephyr,  guilty  of  his  death. 

"The  widowed  primrose  weeping  to  the  moon, 
And  saffron  crocus,  in  whose-  chalice  bright 
A  cool  libation  hoarded  for  the  noon 
Is  kept  —  and  she  that  purifies  the  light, 
The  virgin  lily,  faithful  to  her  white. 
Whereon  I've  wept  in  Eden  for  her  shame; 
And  the  most  dainty  rose,  Aurora's  spright, 
Our  every  godchild,  by  whatever  name  — 
Spare  us  our  lives,  for  we  did  nurse  the  same!" 
3 


2G  the  ri.i  \   n! 

Then  that  old  Mower  stamped  his  heel,  and  struck 
His  hurtful  scythe  against  the  harmless  ground, 
Saying,  "  Ye  foolish  imps,  when  am  1  stuck 
With  gaudy  buds,  or  like  a  wooer  crowned 
With  flowery  duplets,  save  when  they  are  found 
Withered;'  —  Whenever  have  I  plucked  a  rose, 
Except  to  scatter  its  vain  leaves  around? 
For  so  all  gloss  of  beauty  I  oppose, 
And  bring  decay  on  ever}-  flower  that  blows. 

"  Or  when  am  I  so  wroth  as  when  I  view 

The  wanton  pride  of  Summer;  —  how  she  decks 

The  birthday  world  with  blossoms  ever  new, 

As  if  Time  had  not  lived,  and  heaped  great  wrecks 

Of  years  on  years  ?  —  O,  then  I  bravely  vex 

And  catch  the  gay  Months  in  their  gaudy  plight, 

And  slay  them  with  the  wreaths  about  their  necks, 

Like  foolish  heifers  in  the  holy  rite, 

And  raise  great  trophies  to  my  ancient  might ! " 

Then  saith  another,  "We  are  kindly  thin--, 
And  like  her  offspring  nestle  with  the  dove, — 
Witness  these  hearts  embroidered  on  our  win<rs, 
To  show  our  constant  patronage  of  love  :  — - 
We  .-it  at  even,  in  sweet  bowers  above 
Lovers,  and  shake  rich  odors  on  the  air, 
To  mingle  with  their  sighs  ;  and  still  remove 
The  startling  owl,  and  bid  the  bat  forbear 
Their  privacy,  and  haunt  some  other  where. 

"  And  we  are  near  the  mother  when  she  sits 
Beside  her  infant  in  its  wicker  bed  ; 
And  we  are  in  the  fairy  scene  that  flits 
Across  its  tender  brain  :  sweet  dreams  we  shed, 
And  whilst  the  tender  little  soul  is  fled 


THE    MIDSUMMER    FAIRIES.  27 

Away,  to  sport  with  our  young  elves,  the  while 
We  touch  the  dimpled  cheek  with  roses  red, 
And  tickle  the  soft  lips  until  they  smile, 
So  that  their  careful  parents  they  beguile. 

"  O,  then,  if  ever  thou  hast  breathed  a  vow 
At  Love's  dear  portal,  or  at  pale  moon-rise 
Crushed  the  dear  curl  on  a  regardful  brow  ^ 
That  did  not  frown  thee  from  thy  honey  prize  ~ 
If  ever  thy  sweet  son  sat  on  thy  thighs, 
And  wooed  thee  from  thy  careful  thoughts  within 
To  watch  the  harmless  beauty  of  his  eyes, 
Or  glad  thy  fingers  on  his  smooth,  soft  skin, 
For  love's  dear  sake,  let  us  thy  pity  win ! " 

Then  Saturn  fiercely  thus  :  "  What  joy  have  I 
In  tender  babes,  that  have  devoured  mine  own, 
Whenever  to  the  light  I  heard  them  cry, 
Till  foolish  Rhea  cheated  me  with  stone? 
Whereon,  till  now,  is  my  great  hunger  shown, 
In  monstrous  dints  of  my  enormous  tooth  ; 
And,  —  hut  the  peopled  world  is  too  full  grown 
For  hunger's  edge,  — I  would  consume  all  youth 
At  one  great  meal,  without  delay  or  ruth  ! 

"  For  I  am  well-nigh  crazed  and  wild  to  hear 
How  boastful  fathers  taunt  me  with  their  breed, 
Saying,  '  We  shall  not  die  nor  disappear, 
But  in  these  other  selves  ourselves  succeed, 
Even  a-  ripe  flowers  pass  into  their  seed 
Only  to  he  renewed  from  prime  to  prime,' 
All  of  which  boastings  I  am  forced  to  read, 
Besides  a  thousand  challenges  to  Time 
Which  bragging  lovers  have  compiled  in  rhyme. 


28  THE    PI.EA    OF 

"Wherefore,  when  they  are  sweetly  met  o'  nights, 
There  will  I  steal,  and  with  my  hurried  hand 
Startle  them  suddenly  from  their  delights 
Before  their  next  encounter  hath  been  planned, 
Ravishing  hours  in  little  minutes  spanned; 
But  when  they  say  farewell,  and  grieve  apart, 
Then  like  a  leaden  statue  I  will  stand, 
Meanwhile  their  many  tears  incrust  my  dart, 
And  with  a  ragged  edge  cut  heart  from  heart." 

Then  next  a  merry  Woodsman,  clad  in  green, 
Stept  vanward  from  his  mates,  that  idly  stood 
Each  at  his  proper  ease,  as  they  had  been 
Nursed  in  the  liberty  of  old  Sherwood, 
And  wore  the  livery  of  Robin  Hood, 
Who  wont  in  forest  shades  to  dine  and  sup,  — 
So  came  this  chief  right  frankly,  and  made  good 
His  haunch  against  his  axe,  and  thus  spoke  up, 
Doffing  his  cap,  which  was  an  acorn's  cup  : 

"  We  be  small  foresters  and  gay,  who  tend 
On  trees  and  all  their  furniture  of  green, 
Training  the  young  boughs  airily  to  bend, 
And  show  blue  snatches  of  the  sky  between  ; 
Or  knit  more  close  intricacies,  to  screen 
Birds'  crafty  dwellings,  as  may  hide  them  best, 
But  most  the  timid  blackbird's  —  she,  that  seen, 
A\  ill  bear  black  poisonous  berries  to  her  nest, 
Test  man  should  cage  the  darlings  of  her  breast 

"  We  bend  each  tree  in  proper  attitude, 
And  founting  willows  train  in  silvery  falls; 
We  frame  all  shady  roofs  and  arches  rude, 
And  verdant  aisles  leading  to  Dryads'  halls, 
Or  deep  recesses  where  the  Echo"  calls  ;  — 


THE    MIDSUMMER    FAIRIES.  29 

We  shape  all  plumy  trees  against  the  sky, 
And  carve  tall  elms'  Corinthian  capitals, — 
When  sometimes,  as  our  tiny  hatchets  ply, 
Men  say,  the  tapping  woodpecker  is  nigh. 

"  Sometimes  we  scoop  the  squirrel's  hollow  Cell, 

And  sometimes  carve  quaint  letters  on  trees'  rind, 

That  haply  some  lone  musing  wight  may  spell 

1  hiinty  Aminta,  —  gentle  Rosalind,  — 

Or  chastest  Laura,  —  sweetly  called  to  mind 

In  sylvan  solitudes,  ere  he  lies  down ;  — 

And  sometimes  we  enrich  gray  stems,  with  twined 

And  vagrant  ivy,  —  or  rich  moss,  whose  hrown 

Burns  into  gold  as  the  warm  sun  goes  down. 

"  And,  lastly,  for  mirth's  sake  and  Christmas  cheer, 
We  hear  the  seedling  berries,  for  increase, 
To  graft  the  Druid  oaks,  from  year  to  year, 
Careful  that  mistletoe  may  never  cease;  — 
Wherefore,  if  thou  dost  prize  the  shady  peace 
Of  somhre  forests,  or  to  see  light  break 
Through  sylvan  cloisters,  and  in  spring  release 
Thy  spirit  amongst  leaves  from  careful  ake, 
Spare  us  our  lives  for  the  Green  Dryad's  sake." 

Then  Saturn,  with  a  frown  :  "  Go  forth,  and  fell 

Oak  for  your  coffins,  and  thenceforth  lav  by 

Your  axes  for  the  rust,  and  bid  farewell 

To  all  sweet  birds,  and  the  blue  peeps  of  sky 

Through  tangled  branches,  fur  ye  shall  not  spy 

The  next  green  generation  of  the  tree; 

But  hence  with  the  dead  haves,  whene'er  they  fly, 

Which  in  the  bleak  air  1  would  rather  see. 

Than  flights  of  the  most  tuneful  birds  that  be. 


30  Tin:  FLEA  oi- 

"For  I  dislike  all  prime,  and  verdant  pets, 

Ivy  except,  that  on  the  aged  wall 

Preys  with  its  worm-like  roots,  and  daily  frets 

The  crumbled  tower  it  seems  to  league  withal, 

King-like,  worn  down  by  its  own  coronal:  — 

Neither  in  forest  haunts  love  I  to  won, 

Before  the  golden  plumage  'gins  to  fell, 

And  leaves  the  brown  bleak  limbs  with  few  leave.- 

Or  bare  —  like  Nature  in  her  skeleton. 

"  For  then  sit  I  amongst  the  crooked  boughs, 
Wooing  dull  Memory  with  kindred  sighs ; 
And  there  in  rustling  nuptials  we.espouse, 
Smit  by  the  sadness  in  each  other's  eyes ;  — 
But  Hope  must  have  green  bowers  and  blue  skies- 
And  must  be  courted  with  the  gauds  of  spring ; 
Whilst  Youth  leans  godlike  on  her  lap,  and  cries, 
What  shall  we  always  do,  but  love  and  sing  ?  — . 
And  Time  is  reckoned  a  discarded  tlung." 

Here  in  my  dream  it  made  me  fret  to  see 
How  Fuck,  the  antic,  all  this  dreary  while 
Had  blithely  jested  with  calamity. 
With  mistimed  mirth  mocking  the  doleful  style 
Of  his  sad  comrades,  till  it  raised  my  bile 
To  sec  him  so  reflect  their  grief  aside, 
Turning  their  solemn  looks  to  half  a  smile  — 
Like  a  straight  stick  shown  crooked  in  the  tide  j— ' 
But  soon  a  novel  advocate  I  spied. 

Quoth  he,  "  We  teach  all  natures  to  fulfil 
Their  fore-appointed  crafts,  and  instincts  meet,  — 
The  bee's  sweet  alchemy,  —  the  spider's  skill,  — 
The  pismire's  care  to  gamer  up  his  wheat, — 
And  rustic  masonry  to  swallows  fleet,  — 


THE    MIDSUMMER    FAIRIES.  31 

The  lapwing's  cunning  to  preserve  her  nest,  — 
But  most  that  lesser  pelican,  the  sweet 
And  shrilly  ruddock,  with  its  bleeding  breast, 
Its  tender  pity  of  poor  babes  distrest. 

"  Sometimes  we  cast  our  shapes,  and  in  sleek  skins 
Delve  with  the  timid  mole,  that  aptly  delves 
From  our  example  ;  so  the  spider  spins, 
And  eke  the  silk-worm,  patterned  by  ourselves  : 
Sometimes  we  travail  on  the  summer  shelves 
Of  early  bees,  and  busy  toils  commence, 
Watched  of  wise  men,  that  know  not  we  are  elves, 
But  gaze  and  marvel  at  our  stretch  of  sense, 
And  praise  our  human-like  intelligence. 

"  Wherefore,  by  thy  delight  in  that  old  tale, 
And  plaintive  dirges  the  late  robins  sing, 
What  time  the  leaves  are  scattered  by  the  gale, 
Mindful  of  that  old  forest  burying ;  — 
As  thou  dost  love  to  watch  each  tiny  thing, 
For  whom  our  craft  most  curiously  contrives, 
If  thou  hast  caught  a  bee  upon  the  wing, 
To  take  his  honey-bag,  —  spare  us  our  lives, 
And  we  will  pay  the  ransom  in  full  hives." 

"  Now  by  my  glass,"  quoth  Time,  "  ye  do  offend 
In  teaching  the  brown  bees  that  careful  lore, 
And  frugal  ants,  whose  millions  would  have  end, 
But  they  lay  up  for  need  a  timely  store, 
And  travail  with  the  seasons  evermore; 
Whereas  Greal  Mammoth  long  hath  passed  away, 
And  none  hut  I  can  tell  what  hide  he  wore  ; 
Whilst  purblind  men,  the  creatures  of  a  day, 
In  riddling  wonder  his  great  bones  survey." 


32  THE    PLEA    OF 

Then  came  an  elf,  right  beauteous  to  behold, 
Whose  coat  was  like  a  brooklet  that  the  sun 
Hath  all  embroidered  with  its  crooked  gold, 
It  was  so  quaintly  wrought  and  overrun 
With  spangled  traceries,  —  most  meet  for  one 
That  was  a  warden  of  the  pearly  streams;  — 
And  as  he  stept  out  of  the  shadows  dun, 
His  jewels  sparkled  in  the  pale  moon's  gleams, 
And  shot  into  the  air  their  pointed  beams. 

Quoth  he,  "  We  bear  the  gold  and  silver  keys 

Of  bubbling  springs  and  fountains,  that  below 

Course  through  the  veiny  earth, — which,  when  they  freeze 

Into  hard  chrysolites,  we  bid  to  flow, 

Creeping  like  subtle  snakes,  when,  as  they  go, 

We  guide  their  windings  to  melodious  falls, 

At  whose  soft  murmurings  so  sweet  and  low 

Poets  have  turned  their  smoothest  madrigals, 

To  sing  to  laches  in  their  banquet-halls. 

"  And  when  the  hot  sun  with  his  steadfast  heat 
Parches  the  river  god,  —  whose  dusty  urn 
Drips  miserly,  till  soon  his  crystal  feet 
Against  his  pebbly  floor  wax  faint  and  burn, 
And  languid  fish,  unpoised,  grow  sick  and  yearn, — 
Thou  scoop  we  hollows  in  some  sandy  nook, 
And  little  channels  dig,  wherein  we  turn 
The  thread-worn  rivulet,  that  all  forsook 
The  Naiad-lily,  pining  for  her  brook. 

"Wherefore,  by  thy  delight  in  cool  green  meads, 
With  living  sapphires  daintily  inlaid, — 
In  all  soft  songs  of  waters  and  their  reeds,  — 
And  all  reflections  in  a  streamlet  made, 
Haply  of  thy  own  love,  that,  disarrayed, 


THE    MIDSUMMER    FAIRIES.  33 

Kills  the  fair  lily  'with  a  livelier  white,  — 
By  silver  trouts  upspringing  from  green  shade, 
And  winking  stars  reduplicate  at  night, 
Spare  us,  poor  ministers,  to  such  delight." 

Howbeit  his  pleading  and  his  gentle  looks 

Moved  not  the  spiteful  Shade :  —  Quoth  he,  "  Your  taste 

Shoots  wide  of  mine,  for  I  despise  the  brooks 

And  slavish  rivulets  that  run  to  waste 

In  noontide  sweats,  or,  like  poor  vassals,  haste 

To  swell  the  vast  dominion  of  the  sea, 

In  whose  great  presence  I  am  held  disgraced, 

And  neighbored  with  a  king  that  rivals  me 

In  ancient  might  and  hoary  majesty. 

"  Whereas  I  ruled  in  chaos,  and  still  keep 

The  awful  secrets  of  that  ancient  dearth, 

Before  the  briny  fountains  of  the  deep 

Brimmed  up  the  hollow  cavities  of  earth  ;  — 

I  saw  each  trickling  Sea-God  at  his  birth, 

Each  pearly  Naiad  with  her  oozy  locks, 

And  infant  Titans  of  enormous  girth, 

Whose  hu^c  young  feet  yet  stumbled  on  the  rocks, 

Stunning  the  early  world  with  frequent  shocks. 

"Where  now  is  Titan,  with  his  cumbrous  brood, 

That  scared  the  world  ?  —  By  this  sharp  scythe  they  fell, 

And  half  the  sky  was  curdled  with  their  blood: 

So  have  all  primal  giants  sighed  farewell. 

No  Wardens  now  by  Redgy  fountains  dwell, 

Nor  pearly  Naiads.     All  their  days  are  done 

That  strove  witli  Time,  untimely,  to  excel ; 

Wherefore  I  razed  then  progenies,  and  none 

But  my  great  shadow  intercepts  the  sun ! " 


34  THE    PLEA   OF 

Then  saith  the  timid  Fay,  "  O,  mighty  Time  ! 
Well  hast  thou  wrought  the  cruel  Titans'  fall, 
For  they  were  stained  with  many  a  bloody  crime: 
Great  pants  work  great  wrongs,  — but  we  are  .small, 
For  Love  goes  lowly;  —  hut  Oppression's  tall, 
And  with  surpassing  strides  goes  foremost  still 
"Where  Love  indeed  can  hardly  reach  at  all ; 
like  a  poor  dwarf  o'erburthened  with  good  will, 
That  labors  to  efface  the  tracks  of  ill. 

"  Man  even  strives  with  Man,  hut  we  eschew 
The  guilty  feud,  and  all  fierce  strifes  abhor ; 
Nay,  we  are  gentle  as  sweet  heaven's  dew, 
Beside  the  red  and  horrid  drops  of  war, 
Weeping  the  cruel  hates  men  battle  for, 
Which  worldly  bosoms  nourish  in  our  spite: 
For  in  the  gentle  breast  we  ne'er  withdraw, 
But  only  when  all  love  hath  taken  flight, 
And  youth's  warm  gracious  heart  is  hardened  quite. 

"  So  are  our  gentle  natures  intertwined 
With  sweet  humanities,  and  closely  knit 
In  kindly  sympathy  with  human  kind. 
Witness  how  we  befriend,  with  elfin-wit, 
All  hopeless  maids  and  lovers,  —  nor  omit 
Magical  succors  unto  hearts  forlorn  :  — 
We  charm  man's  life,  and  do  not  perish  it ;  — 
So  judge  us  by  the  helps  we  showed  this  mom 
To  one  who  held  his  wretched  days  in  scorn. 

"  Twas  nigh  sweet  Amwell ;  — for  the  Queen  had  tasked 
Our  skill  to-day  amidst  the  silver  Lea, 
Whereon  the  noontide  sun  had  not  yet  basked; 
Wherefore  some  patient  man  Ave  thought  to  see, 
Planted  in  moss-grown  rushes  to  the  knee, 


THE    MIDSUMMER    FAIRIES.  35 

Beside  the  cloudy  margin  cold  and  dim  ;  — 
Howbeit  no  patient  fishermen  was  he 
That  cast  his  sudden  shadow  from  the  brim, 
Making  us  leave  our  toils  to  gaze  on  him. 

"  His  face  was  ashy  pale,  and  leaden  care 
Had  sunk  the  levelled  arches  of  his  brow, 
Once  bridges  for  his  joyous  thoughts  to  fare 
Over  those  melancholy  springs  and  slow, 
That  from  his  piteous  eyes  began  to  flow, 
And  fell  anon  into  the  chilly  stream  ; 
"\\  nich,  as  his  mimicked  image  showed  below, 
Wrinkled  his  face  with  many  a  needless  seam, 
Making  grief  sadder  in  its  own  esteem. 

"  And,  lo !  upon  the  air  we  saw  him  stretch 
His  passionate  arms  ;  and,  in  a  wayward  strain, 
He  'gan  to  elegize  that  fellow-wretch 
That  with  mute  gestures  answered  him  again, 
Saying,  '  Poor  slave,  how  long  wilt  thou  remain 
Life's  sad  weak  captive  in  a  prison  strong, 
Hoping  with  tears  to  rust  away  thy  chain, 
In  bitter  servitude  to  worldly  wrong?  — 
Thou  wear'st  that  mortal  livery  too  long!' 

"  This,  witli  mere  spleenful  speeches  and  some  tears, 

When  he  had  spent  upon  the  imaged  wave, 

Speedily  I  convened  my  elfin  peers 

Under  the  lily-cups,  that  we  might  save 

This  woful  mortal  from  a  wilful  grave 

By  shrewd  diversions  of  his  mind's  regret, 

Seeing  he  was  mere  Melancholy's  slave, 

That  sank  wherever  a  dark  cloud  he  met, 

And  straight  was  tangled  in  her  secret  net 


30  THE    PLEA    OP 

"Therefore,  as  still  he  watched  the  water's  flow, 

Daintily  we  transformed,  and  with  bright  fins 

Came  glancing  through  the  gloom  ;  some  from  below 

Rose  like  dim  fancies  when  a  dream  begins, 

Snatching  the  light  upon  their  purple  skins; 

Then  under  the  broad  leaves  made  slow  retire ; 

One  like  a  golden  galley  bravely  wins 

Its  radiant  coui-se,  —  another  glows  like  fire,  — 

Making  that  wayward  man  our  pranks  admire. 

"  And  so  he  banished  thought,  and  quite  forgot 

All  contemplation  of  that  wretched  face ; 

And  so  we  wiled  him  from  that  lonely  spot 

Along  the  river's  brink;  till,  by  Heaven's  grace, 

He  met  a  gentle  haunter  of  the  place, 

Full  of  sweet  wisdom  gathered  from  the  brooks, 

Who  there  discussed  his  melancholy  case 

With  wholesome  texts  learned  from  kind  Nature's  looks, 

Meanwhile  he  newly  trimmed  his  lines  and  hooks." 

Herewith  the  Fairy  ceased.     Quoth  Ariel  now  — 
"Let  me  remember  how  I  saved  a  man, 
Whose  fatal  noose  was  fastened  on  a  bough, 
Intended  to  abridge  his  sad  life's  span ; 
For  haply  I  was  by  when  he  began 
His  stern  soliloquy  in  life's  dispraise, 
And  overheard  his  melancholy  plan, 
How  he  had  made  a  vow  to  end  his  days, 
And  therefore  followed  him  in  all  his  ways, 

"Through  brake  and  tangled  copse,  for  much  he  loathed 
All  populous  haunts,  and  roamed  in  forests  rude, 
To  hide  himself  from  man.     But  I  had  clothed 
My  delicate  limbs  with  plumes,  and  still  pursued 
Where  only  foxes  and  wild  cats  intrude, 


■*!  m 


THE    MIDSUMMER    FAIRIES.  37 

Till  we  were  come  beside  an  ancient  tree 
Late  blasted  by  a  storm.     Here  he  renewed 
His  loud  complaints,  —  choosing  that  spot  to  be 
The  scene  of  his  last  horrid  tragedy. 

"  It  was  a  wild  and  melancholy  glen, 
Made  gloomy  by  tall  firs  and  cypress  dark, 
Whose  roots,  like  any  bones  of  buried  men, 
Pushed  through  the  rotten  sod  for  fears  remark ; 
A  hundred  horrid  stems,  jagged  and  stark, 
Wrestled  with  crooked  arms  in  hideous  fray, 
Besides  sleek  ashes,  with  their  dappled  bark, 
Like  crafty  serpents  climbing  for  a  prey, 
With  many  blasted  oaks,  moss-grown  and  gray. 

"  But  here  upon  this  final  desperate  clause 

Suddenly  I  pronounced  so  sweet  a  strain, 

Like  a  panged  nightingale  it  made  him  pause, 

Till  half  the  frenzy  of  his  grief  was  slain, 

The  sad  remainder  oozing  from  his  brain 

In  timely  ecstasies  of  healing  tears, 

Which  through  his  ardent  eyes  began  to  drain  ;  — 

Meanwhile  the  deadly  fates  unclosed  their  shears  :  — 

So  pity  me  and  all  my  fated  peers !  " 

Thus  Ariel  ended,  and  was  some  time  hushed  : 
When  with  the  hoary  shape  a  fresh  tongue  pleads, 
And  red  as  rose  the  gentle  Fairy  blushed 
To  read  the  record  of  her  own  good  deeds  :  — 
"It  chanced,"  quoth  she, "in  seeking  through  the  meads 
For  honeyed  cowslips,  sweetest  in  the  morn. 
Whilst  yet  the  buds  were  hung  with  dewy  beads, 
And  Echo  answered  to  the  huntsman's  horn, 
We  found  a  babe  left  in  the  swaths  forlorn. 
4 


THE    PLEA    ol-- 


'A  little,  sorrowful,  deserted  tiling, 

Begot  of  love,  and  yet  no  love  begetting; 
duililess  of  shame,  and  yet  lor  shame  to  wring; 
And  too  soon  banished  from  a  mother's  petting, 
To  churlish  nurture  and  the  wide  world's  fretting, 
For  alien  pity  and  unnatural  care  ;  — 
Alas  !  to  see  how  the  cold  dew  kept  wetting 
His  childish  coats,  and  dabbled  all  his  hair, 
Like  gossamers  across  his  forehead  fair. 

"  His  pretty,  pouting  mouth,  witless  of  speech, 
Lay  half-way  open,  like  a  rose-lipped  shell ; 
And  his  young  cheek  was  softer  than  a  peach, 
Whereon  his  tears,  for  roundness,  could  not  dwell, 
But  quickly  rolled  themselves  to  pearls,  and  fell, 
Some  on  the  grass,  and  some  against  his  hand, 
Or  haply  wandered  to  the  dimpled  well, 
Which  love  beside  his  mouth  had  sweetly  planned, 
Yet  not  for  tears,  but  mirth  and  smilings  bland. 

'•  Pit\-  it  was  to  see  those  frequent  tears 
Falling  regardless  from  his  friendless  eyes  ; 
There  was  such  beauty  in  those  twin  blue  spheres, 
As  any  mother's  heart  might  leap  to  prize; 
Blue  were  they,  like  the  zenith  of  the  skies 
Softened  betwixt  two  clouds,  both  clear  and  mild  ;■ 
.lust  touched  with  thought,  and  yet  not  over  wise, 
They  showed  the  gentle  spirit  of  a  child, 
Not  yet  by  care  or  any  craft  defiled. 

"Pity  it  was  to  see  the  ardent  sun 

Scorching  his  helpless  limbs  —  it  shone  so  warm  ; 

For  kindly  shade  or  shelter  he  had  none. 

Nor  mother's  gentle  breast,  come  fair  or  storm. 

Meanwhile  I  hade  my  pitying  mates  transform 


A  tender-hearted  hind, 
Who.  wondering  al  our  loud  unusual  note 
Strays  curiously  aside,  and  so  doth  And 
The  orphan  child  laid  in  the  grass  remote. 

/'/,•,/  of  t/i,-  Mi, /summer  Fairict.—Pagz  39. 


THE    MIDSUMMER    FAIRIES.  39 

Like  grasshoppers,  and  then,  with  shrilly  cries, 
All  round  the  infant  noisily  we  swarm, 
Haply  some  passing  rustic  to  advise  — 
Whilst  providential  Heaven  our  care  espies, 

"  And  sends  full  soon  a  tender-hearted  hind, 
Who,  wondering  at  our  loud,  unusual  note, 
Strays  curiously  aside,  and  so  doth  find 
The  orphan  child  laid  in  the  grass -remote, 
And  laps  the  foundling  in  his  russet  coat, 
Who  thence  was  nurtured  in  his  kindly  cot :  — 
But  how  he  prospered  let  proud  London  quote, 
How  wise,  how  rich,  and  how  renowned  he  got, 
And  chief  of  all  her  citizens,  I  wot. 

"  Witness  his  goodly  vessels  on  the  Thames, 

Whose  holds  were  fraught  with  costly  merchandise,  — 

Jewels  from  Ind,  and  pearls  for  courtly  dames, 

And  gorgeous  silks  that  Samarcand  supplies  : 

Witness  that  Royal  Bourse  he  bade  arise, 

The  mart  of  merchants  from  the  East  and  West ; 

Whose  slender  summit,  pointing  to  the  skies, 

Still  bears,  in  token  of  his  grateful  breast, 

The  tender  grasshopper,  his  chosen  crest  — 

"  The  tender  grasshopper,  his  chosen  crest, 

That  all  the  summer,  with  a  tuneful  wing, 

Makes  merry  chirpings  in  its  grassy  nest, 

Inspirited  with  dew  to  leap  and  sing :  — 

So  let  us  also  live,  eternal  King!  • 

Partakers  of  the  green  and  pleasant  earth  :  — 

Pity  it  is  to  slay  the  meanest  thing 

That,  like  a  mote,  shines  in  the  smile  of  mirth  :  — 

Enough  there  is  of  joy's  decrease  and  dearth ! 


40  the  n-EA  OF 

"  Enough  of  pleasure,  and  delight,  and  heauty, 

Perished  and  gone,  and  hasting  to  decay;  — 

Enough  to  sadden  even  thee,  whose  duty 

Or  spite  it  is  to  havoc  and  to  slay  : 

Too  many  a  lovely  race,  razed  quite  away, 

Hath  left  large  gaps  m  life  and  human  loving :  — 

Here  then  begin  thy  cruel  war  to  stay, 

And  spare  fresh  sighs,  and  tears,  and  groans,  reproving 

Thy  desolating  hand  for  our  removing." 

Now  here  I  heard  a  shrill  and  sudden  cry, 

And  looking  up,  I  saw  the  antic  Puck 

Grappling  with  Time,  who  clutched  him  like  a  fly, 

Victim  of  his  own  sport,  —  the  jester's  luck  ! 

He,  whilst  his  fellows  grieved,  poor  wight,  had  stuck 

His  freakish  gauds  upon  the  Ancient's  brow, 

And  now  his  ear,  and  now  his  beard,  would  pluck  * 

Whereas  the  angry  churl  had  snatched  him  now. 

Crying,  "  Thou  impish  mischief,  who  art  thou  ?  " 

"Alas!"  quoth  Puck,  "a  little  random  elf, 
Born  in  the  sport  of  nature,  like  a  weed, 
For  simple,  sweet  enjoyment  of  myself, 
But  for  no  other  purpose,  worth,  or  need  ; 
And  yet  withal  of  a  most  happy  breed  ; 
And  there  is  Robin  Goodfellow  besides, 
My  partner  dear  in  many  a  prankish  deed 
To  make  dame  Laughter  hold  her  jolly  sides, 
Like  merry  mummers  twain  on  holy  tides. 

".'Tis  we  that  bob  the  angler's  idle  cork, 
Till  even  the  patient  man  breathes  half  a  curse  *, 
We  steal  the  morsel  from  the  gossip's  fork, 
And  curdling  looks  with  secret  straws  disperse, 
Or  stop  the  sneezing  chanter  at  mid  verse : 


THE    MIDSLMMER    FAIRIES.  41 

And  when  an  infant's  beauty  prospers  ill, 

We  change,  some  mothers  say,  the  child  at  nurse  ; 

But  any  graver  purpose  to  fulfil, 

We  have  not  wit  enough,  and  scarce  the  will. 

"  We  never  let  the  canker  melancholy 

To  gather  on  our  faces  like  a  rust, 

But  gloss  our  features  with  some  change  of  folly, 

Taking  life's  fabled  miseries  on  trust, 

But  only  sorrowing  when  sorrow  must : 

We  ruminate  no  sage's  solemn  cud, 

But  own  ourselves  a  pinch  of  lively  dust 

To  frisk  upon  a  wind,  —  whereas  the  flood 

Of  tears  would  turn  us  into  heavy  mud. 

"Beshrew  those  sad  interpreters  of  nature, 

Who  gloze  her  lively,  universal  law, 

As  if  she  had  not  formed  our  cheerful  feature 

To  be  so  tickled  with  the  slightest  straw ! 

So  let  them  vex  their  mumping  mouths,  and  draw 

The  corners  downward,  like  a  watery  moon, 

And  deal  in  gusty  sighs  and  rainy  flaw  — 

We  will  not  woo  foul  weather  all  too  soon, 

Or  nurse  November  on  the  lap  of  June. 

"  For  ours  are  winging  sprites,  like  any  bird, 
That  shun  all  stagnant  settlements  of  grief; 
And  even  in  our  rest  our  hearts  are  stirred, 
Like  insects  settled  on  a  dancing  leaf :  — 
This  is  our  small  philosophy  in  brief, 
Which  thus  to  teach  hath  set  me  all  agape : 
But  dost  thou  relish  it  ?     O,  hoary  chief! 
Unclasp  thy  crooked  fingers  from  my  nape, 
And  I  will  show  thee  many  a  pleasant  scrape." 
4# 


42  THE    PLEA    OF 

Then  Saturn  thus:  —  shaking  his  crooked  hlade 
O'erhead,  which  made  aloft  a  lightning  flash 
In  all  tha  fairies'  eyes,  dismally  frayed  ! 
His  ensuing  voice  came  like  the  thunder  crash  — 
Meanwhile  the  bolt  shatters  some  pine  or  ash  — 
"Thou  feeble,  wanton,  foolish,  fickle  thing! 
Whom  nought  can  frighten,  sadden,  or  abash, — 
To  hope  my  solemn  countenance  to  wring 
To  idiot  smiles  !  —  hut  I  will  prune  thy  wing  ! 

"Lo  !  this  most  awful  handle  of  my  scythe 
Stood  once  a  May-pole,  with  a  flowery  crown, 
Which  rustics  danced  around,  and  maidens  blithe, 
To  Avanton  pipings  ;  —  but  I  plucked  it  down, 
And  robed  the  May  Queen  in  a  church-yard  gown, 
Turning  her  buds  to  rosemary  and  rue ; 
And  all  their  merry  minstrelsy  did  drown, 
And  laid  each  lusty  leaper  in  the  dew ;  — 
So  thou  shalt  fare  —  and  every  jovial  crew  !  " 

Here  he  lets  go  the  struggling  imp,  to  clutch 
His  mortal  engine  with  each  grisly  hand, 
Which  frights  the  elfin  progeny  so  much, 
They  huddle  in  a  heap,  and  trembling  stand 
All  round  Titania,  like  the  queen  bee's  band, 
With  si^hs  and  tears  and  very  shrieks  of  woe!  — 
Meanwhile,  some  moving  argument  I  planned, 
To  make  the  stern  Shade  merciful,  —  when,  lo! 
He  drops  his  fatal  scythe  without  a  blow ! 

For,  just  at  need,  a  timely  Apparition 
Steps  in  between,  to  bear  the  awful  brunt ; 
Making  him  change  his  horrible  position, 
To  marvel  at  this  comer,  brave  and  blunt, 
That  dares  Time's  irresistible  affront, 


THE    MIDSUMMER    FAIRIES.  43 

Whose  strokes  have  scarred  even  the  gods  of  old  »  — 
Whereas  this  seemed  a  mortal,  at  mere  hunt 
For  conies,  lighted  by  the  moonshine  cold, 
Or  stalker  of  stray  deer,  stealthy  and  bold. 

Who,  turning  to  the  small  assembled  fays, 
Doffs  to  the  lily  queen  his  courteous  cap, 
And  holds  her  beauty  for  a  while  in  gaze, 
With  bright  eyes  kindling  at  this  pleasant  hap; 
And  thence  upon  the  fair  moon's  silver  map, 
As  if  in  question  of  this  magic  chance, 
Laid  like  a  dream  upon  the  green  earth's  lap  ; 
And  then  upon  old  Saturn  turns  askance, 
Exclaiming,  with  a  glad  and  kindly  glance  :  — 

"  O,  these  be  Fancy's  revellers  by  night ! 
Stealthy  companions  of  the  downy  moth  — 
Diana's  motes,  that  flit  in  her  pale  light, 
Shunners  of  Sunbeams  in  diurnal  sloth  ;  — 
These  be  the  feasters  on  night's  silver  cloth, — 
The  gnat  with  shrilly  trump  is  their  convener, 
Forth  from  their  flowery  chambers,  nothing  loth, 
With  lulling  tunes  to  charm  the  air  serener, 
Or  dance  upon  the  grass  to  make  it  greener. 

"These  lie  the  pretty  genii  of  the  flowers, 

]  Jaintily  fed  with  honey  and  pure  dew  — 

Midsummer's  phantoms  in  her  dreaming  hours, 

King  Oberon  and  all  his  merry  crew. 

The  darling  puppets  of  romance's  view; 

Fairies,  and  sprites,  and  goblin  elves,  we  call  them, 

Famous  for  patronage  of  lovers  true  ;  — 

No  harm  they  art,  neither  shall  harm  befall  them, 

So  do  not  thus  with  crabbed  frowns  appall  them." 


44  THE    n.EA    OF 

O,  what  a  cry  was  Saturn's  then !  —  it  made 

The  fairies  quake.     "  What  care  I  for  then-  pranks, 

However  they  may  lovers  choose  to  aid, 

Or  dance  their  roundelays  oh  flowery  banks  ?  — 

Long  must  they  dance  before  they  earn  my  thanks,  ■ 

So  step  aside,  to  some  far  safer  spot, 

Whilst  with  my  hungry  scythe  I  mow  their  ranks, 

And  leave  them  in  the  sun,  like  weeds,  to  rot, 

And  with  the  next  day's  sun  to  be  forgot." 

Anon,  he  raised  afresh  his  weapon  keen ; 
But  still  the  gracious  Shade  disarmed  his  aim, 
Stepping  with  brave  alacrity  between, 
And  made  his  sere  arm  powerless  and  tame. 
His  be  perpetual  glory,  for  the  shame 
Of  hoary  Saturn  in  that  grand  defeat !  — 
But  I  must  tell  how  here  Titania  came 
With  all  her  kneeling  lieges,  to  entreat 
His  kindly  succor,  in  sad  tones,  but  sweet. 

Saying,  "  Thou  seest  a  wretched  queen  before  thee, 

The  fading  power  of  a  failing  land, 

Who  for  her  kingdom  kneeleth  to  implore  thee, 

Now  menaced  by  this  tyrant's  spoiling  hand; 

No  one  but  thee  can  hopefully  withstand 

That  crooked  blade,  he  longeth  so  to  lift. 

I  pray  thee  blind  him  with  his  own  vile  sand, 

Which  only  times  all  ruins  by  its  drift, 

Or  prune  his  eagle  wings  that  are  so  swift. 

"  Or  take  him  by  that  sole  and  grizzled  tuft 
That  hangs  upon  his  bald  and  barren  crown ; 
And  we  will  sing  to  see  him  so  rebuffed, 
And  lend  our  little  mights  to  pull  him  down, 
And  make  brave  sport  of  his  malicious  frown, 


THE    MIDSUMMER    FAIRIES.  45 

For  all  his  boastful  mockery  o'er  men. 

For  thou  wast  born,  I  know,  for  this  renown, 

By  my  most  magical  and  inward  ken, 

That  readeth  even  at  Fate's  forestalling  peru 

•'  Nay,  by  the  golden  lustre  of  thine  eye, 
And  by  thy  brow's  most  fair  and  ample  span, 
Thought's  glorious  palace,  framed  for  fancies  high, 
And  by  thy  cheek  thus  passionately  wan, 
I  know  the  signs  of  an  immortal  man,  — 
Nature's  chief  darling,  an  illustrious  mate, 
Destined  to  foil  old  Death's  oblivious  plan, 
And  shine  untarnished  by  the  fogs  of  Fate, 
Time's  famous  rival  till  the  final  date  ! 

"  O,  shield  us,  then,  from  this  usurping  Time, 

And  we  will  visit  thee  in  moonlight  dreams  ; 
And  teach  thee  tunes,  to  wed  unto  thy  rhyme, 
And  dance  about  thee  in  all  midnight  gleams, 
Giving  thee  glimpses  of  our  magic  schemes, 
Such  as  no  mortal's  eye  hath  ever  seen ; 
And,  for  thy  love  to  us  in  our  extremes, 
AVill  ever  keep  thy  chaplet  fresh  and  green, 
Such  as  no  poet's  wreath  hath  ever  been  ! 

"  And  we'll  distil  thee  aromatic  dews. 

To  charm  thy  sense,  when  then1  shall  be  no  flowers : 

And  flavored  sirups  in  thy  drinks  infuse, 

And  teach  the  nightingale  to  haunt  thy  bowers, 

And  with  our  pimes  divert  thy  weariest  hours, 

With  all  that  elfin  wits  can  e'er  devise. 

And,  this  churl  dead,  there'll  be  no  hasting  hours 

To  rob  thee  of  thy  joys,  as  now  joy  flies  :  "  — 

Here  she  was  stopped  by  Saturn's  furious  cries. 


46  THE    FLEA   OF 

Whom,  therefore,  the  kind  Shade  rebukes  anew, 
Saying,  "  Thou  haggard  Sin,  go  forth,  and  scoop 
Thy  hollow  coffin  in  some  church-yard  yew, 
Or  make  the  autumnal  flowers  turn  pale,  and  droop 
Or  fell  the  bearded  com,  till  gleaners  stoop 
Under  fat  sheaves,  —  or  blast  the  piny  grove  :  — 
But  here  thou  shalt  not  harm  this  pretty  group, 
Whose  lives  are  not  so  frail  and  feebly  wove, 
But  leased  on  Nature's  loveliness  and  love. 

"  'Tis  these  that  free  the  small  entangled  fly, 
Caught  in  the  venomed  spider's  crafty  snare ;  — 
These  be  the  petty  surgeons  that  apply 
The  healing  balsams  to  the  wounded  hare, 
Bedded  in  bloody  fern,  no  creature's  care  !  — 
These  be  providers  for  the  orphan  brood, 
Whose  tender  mother  hath  been  slain  in  air, 
Quitting  with  gaping  bill  her  darlings'  food, 
Hard  by  the  verge  of  her  domestic  wood. 

"  Tis  these  befriend  the  timid  trembling  stag, 
When,  with  a  bursting  heart  beset  with  fears, 
He  feels  his  saving  speed  begin  to  flag; 
For  then  they  quench  the  fatal  taint  with  tears, 
And  prompt  fresh  shifts  in  his  alarumed  ears, 
So  piteously  they  view  all  bloody  morts ; 
Or  if  the  gunner,  with  his  arm,  appears, 
Like  noisy  pyes  and  jays,  with  harsh  reports, 
They  warn  the  wild  fowl  of  his  deadly  sports. 

"  For  these  are  kindly  ministers  of  nature, 
To  soothe  all  covert  hints  and  dumb  distress ; 
Pretty  they  lie,  and  very  small  of  stature, — 
For  mercy  still  consorts  with  littleness  ; 


THE    MIDSUMMER    FAIRIES.  47 

Wherefore  the  sum  of  good  is  still  the  less, 

And  mischief  grossest  in  this  world  of  wrong ; '  ' 

So  do  these  charitable  dwarfs  redress 

The  ten-fold  ravages  of  giants  strong, 

To  whom  great  malice  and  great  might  belong; 

"  Likewise  to  them  are  Poets  much  beholden 
For  secret  favors  in  the  midnight  glooms  ; 
Brave  Spenser  quaffed  out  of  their  goblets  gold  >n, 
And  saw  their  tallies  spread  of  prompt  mushrooms, 
And  heard  their  homs  of  honeysuckle  blooms 
Sounding  upon  the  air  most  soothing  soft, 
Like  humming  bees  busy  about  the  brooms,  — 
And  glanced  this  fair  queen's  witchery  full  oft, 
And  in  her  magic  wain  soared  far  aloft. 

"  Nay,  I  myself,  though  mortal,  once  was  nursed 

By  fairy  gossips,  friendly  at  my  birth, 

And  in  my  childish  ear  glib  Mab  rehearsed 

Her  breezy  travels  round  our  planet's  girth, 

Telling  me  wonders  of  the  moon  and  earth  ; 

My  gramarye  at  her  grave  lap  I  conned, 

Where  Puck  hath  been  convened  to  make  me  mirth,' 

I  have  had  from  Queen  Titania  tokens  fond, 

And  toyed  with  Oberon's  permitted  wand. 

"  With  fi<rs  and  plums  and  Persian  dates  they  fed  me, 
And  delicate  cates  after  my  sunset  meal, 
And  took  me  by  my  childish  hand,  and  led  me 
By  craggy  rocks  crested  with  keeps  of  steel, 
Whose  awful  bases  deep  dark  woods  conceal, 
Staining  some  dead  lake  with  their  verdant  dyes  : 
And  when  the  West  sparkled  at  Phoebus'  wheel, 
With  fairy  euphrasy  they  purged  mine  eyes, 
To  let  me  see  their  cities  in  the  skies. 


48  T"l;    M«BA   OP 

"  Twas  they  first  schooled  my  young  imagination 
To  take  its  flights  like  any  new-fledged  bird, 
And  showed  the  span  of  winged  meditation 
Stretched  wider  than  things  grossly  seen  or  heard. 
With  sweet  swift  Ariel  how  I  soared  and  stirred 
The  fragrant  blooms  of  spiritual  bowers ! 
'Twas  they  endeared  what  I  have  still  preferred, 
Nature's  blest  attributes  and  balmy  powers, 
Her  hills  and  vales  and  brooks,  sweet  birds  and  flowers 

-  Wherefore  with  all  true  loyalty  and  duty 

Will  I  regard  them  in  my  honoring  rhyme, 

With  love  for  love,  and  homages  to  beauty, 

And  magic  thoughts  gathered  in  night's  cool  clime, 

With  studious  verse  trancing  the  dragon  Time, 

Strong  as  old  Merlin's  necromantic  spells  ; 

So  these  dear  monarchs  of  the  summer's  prime 

Shall  live  unstartled  by  his  dreadful  yells, 

Till  shrill  larks  warn  them  to  their  flowery  cells." 

Look  how  a  poisoned  man  turns  livid  black, 
Drugged  with  a  cup  of  deadly  hellebore, 
That  sets  his  horrid  Rat  hits  all  at  rack, — 
So  seemed  these  words  into  the  ear  to  pour 
Of  ghastly  Saturn,  answering  with  a  roar 
Of  mortal  pain  and  spite  and  utmost  rage, 
Wherewith  his  grisly  arm  he  raised  once  more, 
And  bade  the  clustered  sinews  all  engage, 
As  if  at  one  fell  stroke  to  wreck  an  age. 

Whereas  the  blade  flashed  on  the  dinted  ground, 
Down  through  his  steadfast  foe,  yet  made  no  scat 
On  that  immortal  Shade,  or  death-like  wound ; 
But  Time  was  long  benumbed,  and  stood  ajar, 
And  then  with  baffled  rage  took  flight  afar, 


THE    MIDSUMMER    FAIRIES.  49 

To  weep  his  hurt  in  some  Cimmerian  gloom, 
Or  meaner  fames  (like  mine)  to  mock,  and  mar, 
Or  sharp  his  scythe  for  royal  strokes  of  doom, 
Whetting  its  edge  on  some  old  Caesar's  tomb. 

Howheit  he  vanished  in  the  forest  shade, 
Distantly  heard,  as  if  some  grumbling  pard, 
And,  like  Narcissus,  to  a  sound  decayed  ;  — 
Meanwhile  the  fays  clustered  the  gracious  Bard, 
The  darling  centre  of  their  dear  regard : 
Besides  of  sundry  dances  on  the  green, 
Never  was  mortal  man  so  brightly  starred, 
Or  won  such  pretty  homages,  I  ween. 
"  Nod  to  him,  Elves !  "  cries  the  melodious  queen. 

"  Nod  to  him,  Elves,  and  nutter  round  about  him, 
And  quite  enclose  him  with  your  pretty  crowd, 
And  touch  him  lovingly,  for  that,  without  him, 
The  silk-worm  now  had  spun  our  dreary  shroud ;  - 
But  he  hath  all  dispersed  death's  tearful  cloud, 
And  Time's  dread  effigy  scai-ed  quite  away : 
Bow  to  him,  then,  as  though  to  me  ye  bowed, 
And  his  dear  wishes  prosper  and  obey 
Wherever  love  and  wit  can  find  a  way  ! 

"  'Noint  him  with  fairy  dews  of  magic  savors, 
Shaken  from  orient  buds  still  pearly  wet, 
Roses  and  spicy  pinks, — and,  of  all  favors, 
Plant  in  his  walks  the  purple  violet, 
And  meadow-sweet  under  the  hedges  set, 
To  mingle  breaths  with  dainty  eglantine 
And  honeysuckles  sweet,  —  nor  yet  forget 
Some  pastoral  flowery  chaplets  to  entwine, 
To  vie  the  thoughts  about  his  brow  benign. 


50  THE    PLEA    OF 

"  Let  no  wild  tilings  astonish  him  or  fear  him, 
But  tell  them  all  how  mild  he  is  of  heart, 
Till  e'en  the  timid  hares  go  frankly  near  him, 
And  eke  the  dappled  does,  yet  never  start; 
Nor  shall  their  fawns  into  the  thickets  dart, 
Nor  wrens  forsake  their  nests  among  the  leaves, 
Nor  speckled  thrushes  flutter  far  apart ;  — 
But  hid  the  sacred  swallow  haunt  his  eaves, 
To  guard  his  roof  from  lightning  and  from  thieves. 

"  Or  when  he  goes  the  nimhlc  squirrel's  visitor, 
Let  the  brown  hermit  bring  his  hoarded  nuts, 
For,  tell  him,  this  is  Nature's  kind  Inquisitor,  — 
Though  man  keeps  cautious  doors  that  conscience  shu*<<, 
For  conscious  wrong  all  curious  quest  rebuts,  — 
Nor  yet  shall  bees  uncase  their  jealous  stings, 
However  he  may  watch  their  straw-built  huts;  — 
So  let  him  learn  the  crafts  of  all  small  things, 
Which  he  will  hint  most  aptly  when  he  sings." 

Here  she  leaves  off,  and  with  a  graceful  hand 
Waves  thrice  three  splendid  circles  round  his  head; 
Which,  though  deserted  by  the  radiant  wand, 
Wears  still  the  glory  which  her  waving  shed, 
Such  as  erst  crowned  the  old  Apostle's  head ; 
To  show  the  thoughts  there  harbored  were  divine, 
And  on  immortal  contemplations  fed  :  — 
Goodly  it  was  to  see  that  glory  shine 
Around  a  brow  so  lofty  and  benign  !  — 

Goodly  it  was  to  see  the  elfin  brood 

Contend  for  kisses  of  his  gentle  hand, 

That  had  their  mortal  enemy  withstood, 

And  stayed  their  lives,  fast  ebbing  with  the  sand. 

Long  while  this  strife  engaged  the  pretty  band ; 


THE    MIDSUMMER    FAIRIES.  5 J 

But  now  bold  Chanticleer,  from  farm  to  farm, 
Challenged  the  dawn  creeping  o'er  eastern  land, 
And  well  the  fairies  knew  that  shrill  alarm, 
Which  sounds  the  knell  of  every  elfish  charm. 

And  soon  the  rolling  mist,  that  'gan  arise 
From  plashy  mead  and  undiscovered  stream, 
Earth's  morning  incense  to  the  early  skies, 
Crept  o'er  the  failing  landscape  of  my  dream. 
Soon  faded  then  the  Phantom  of  my  theme  — 
A  shapeless  shade,  that  fancy  disavowed, 
And  shrank  to  nothing  in  the  mist  extreme. 
Then  flew  Titania,  —  and  her  little  crowd, 
Like  flocking  linnets,  vanished  in  a  cloud. 


<<^U^ 


HERO   AND   LEANDER. 


(53) 


TO  S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 

It  is  not  with  a  hope  my  feehle  praise 
Can  add  one  moment's  honor  to  thy  own, 
That  with  thy  mighty  name  I  grace  these  lays ; 
I  seek  to  glorify  myself  alone  ; 
For  that  some  precious  favor  thou  hast  shown 
To  my  endeavor  in  a  bygone  timo, 
And  by  this  token  I  would  have  it  known 
Thou  art  my  friend,  and  friendly  to  my  rhyme ! 
It  is  my  dear  ambition  now  to  climb 
Still  higher  in  thy  thought,  —  if  n.y  bold  pen 
May  thrust  on  contemplations  more  sublime.  — 
But  I  am  thirsty  for  thy  praise,  for  when 
We  gain  applauses  from  the  great  in  name, 
We  seem  to  be  partakers  of  their  fame. 

(51) 


HERO  AND  LEANDER. 


0  Bards  of  old !  what  sorrows  have  ye  sung, 
And  tragic  stories,  chronicled  in  stone,  — 
Sad  Philomel  restored  her  ravished  tongue, 
And  transformed  Niobe  in  dumbness  shown ; 
Sweet  Sappho  on  her  love  forever  calls, 
And  Hero  on  the  drowned  Leander  falls. 

Was  it  that  spectacles  of  sadder  plights 
Should  make  our  blisses  relish  the  more  high  ? 
Then  all  fair  dames,  and  maidens,  and  true  knights, 
Whose  flourished  fortunes  prosper  in  Love's  eye, 
Weep  here,  unto  a  tale  of  ancient  grief, 
Traced  from  the  course  of  an  old  bas-relief. 

There  stands  Abydos !  —  here  is  Sestos'  steep, 
Hard  by  the  gusty  margin  of  the  sea, 
Where  sprinkling  waves  continually  do  leap ; 
And  that  is  where  those  famous  lovers  be, 
A  builded  gloom  shot  up  into  the  gray, 
As  if  the  first  tall  watch-tower  of  the  day. 

Lo !  how  the  lark  soars  upward  and  is  gone ! 
Turning  a  spirit  as  he  nears  the  sky, 
His  voice  is  heard,  though  body  there  is  none, 
And  rain-like  music  scatters  from  on  high  ; 
But  Love  would  follow  with  a  falcon  spite, 
To  pluck  the  minstrel  from  his  dewy  height 

(55) 


56  HERO    AND    LEANDER. 

For  Love  hath  framed  a  ditty  of  regrets, 
Tuned  to  the  hollow  sobbings  on  the  shore, 
A  vexing  sense,  that  with  like  music  frets, 
And  chimes  this  dismal  burthen  o'er  and  o'er, 
Saying,  Leander's  joys  are  past  and  spent, 
Like  stars  extinguished  in  the  firmament. 

For  ere  the  golden  crevices  of  morn 

Let  in  those  regal  luxuries  of  light, 

Which  all  the  variable  east  adorn, 

And  hang  rich  fringes  on  the  skirts  of  night, 

Leander,  weaning  from  sweet  Hero's  side, 

Must  leave  a  widow  where  he  found  a  bride. 

Hark  !  how  the  billows  beat  upon  the  sand  ! 
Like  pawing  steeds,  impatient  of  delay; 
Meanwhile  their  rider,  lingering  on  the  land, 
Dallies  with  Love,  and  holds  farewell  at  bay 
A  too  short  span.  —  How  tedious  slow  is  grief! 
But  parting  renders  time  both  sad  and  brief. 

"  Alas !  (he  sighed)  that  this  first  glimpsing  light, 

Which  makes  the  wide  world  tenderly  appear, 

Should  be  the  burning  signal  for  my  flight, 

From  all  the  world's  best  image,  which  is  here ; 

Whose  very  shadow,  in  my  fond  compare, 

Shines  far  more  bright  than  Beauty's  self  elsewhere." 

Their  cheeks  are  white  as  blossoms  of  the  dark, 
Whose  leaves  close  up,  and  show  the  outward  pale, 
And  those  fair  mirrors  where  their  joys  did  spark, 
All  dim  and  tarnished  with  a  dreary  veil, 
No  more  to  kindle  till  the  night's  return,     . 
Like  stars  replenished  at  Joy's  golden  urn. 


HERO    AND    I.EANDER.  57 

Even  thus  they  creep  into  the  spectral  gray, 
That  cramps  the  landscape  in  its  narrow  brim, 
As  when  two  shadows  by  old  Lethe  stray, 
He  clasping  her,  and  she  entwining  him  ; 
Like  trees  wind-parted  that  embrace  anon, 
True  love  so  often  goes  before  'tis  gone. 

For  what  rich  merchant  but  will  pause  in  fear, 
To  trust  his  wealth  to  the  unsafe  abyss  ? 
So  Hero  dotes  upon  her  treasure  here, 
And  sums  the  loss  witli  many  an  anxious  kiss, 
Whilst  her  fond  eyes  grow  dizzy  in  her  head, 
Fear  aggravating  fear  with  shows  of  dread. 

She  thinks  how  many  have  been  sunk  and  drowned, 
And  spies  their  snow-white  bones  below  the  deep, 
Then  calls  huge  congregated  monsters  round, 
And  plants  a  rock  wherever  he  would  leap  ; 
Anon  she  dwells  on  a  fantastic  dream, 
Which  she  interprets  of  that  fatal  stream 

Saying,  "  That  honeyed  fly  I  saw  was  thee, 
"Which  lighted  on  a  water-lily's  cup, 
When,  lo !  the  flower,  enamoured  of  my  bee, 
Closed  on  him  suddenly,  and  locked  him  up, 
And  he  was  smothered  in  her  drenching  dew; 
Therefore  this  day  thy  drowning  I  shall  rue." 

But  next,  remembering  her  virgin  fame, 

She  clips  him  in  her  arms,  and  bids  him  go, 

But  seeing  him  break  loose  repents  her  shame, 

And  plucks  him  back  upon  her  bosom's  snow ; 

And  tears  unfix  her  iced  resolve  again, 

As  steadfast  frosts  are  thawed  by  showers  uf  rain. 


58  HERO    AND    I.KAN'llEK. 

0  for  a  type  of  parting  !  —  Love  to  love 
Is  like  the  fond  attraction  of  two  spheres, 
Which  needs  a  godlike  effort  to  remove, 
And  then  sink  down  their  sunny  atmospheres 
In  rain  and  darkness  on  each  ruined  heart, 
Nor  yet  their  melodies  will  sound  apart. 

So  brave  Leander  sunders  from  his  bride ; 

The  wrenching  pang  disparts  his  soul  in  twain  ; 

Half  stays  with  her,  half  goes  towards  the  tide, 

And  life  must  ache  until  they  join  again. 

Now  wouldst  thou  know  the  wideness  of  the  wound, 

Mete  every  step  he  takes  upon  the  ground. 

And  for  the  agony  and  bosom-throe, 

Let  it  be  measured  by  the  wide  vast  air, 

For  that  is  infinite,  and  so  is  woe, 

Since  parted  lovers  breathe  it  every  where. 

Look  how  it  heaves  Leander's  laboring  chest, 

Panting,  at  poise,  upon  a  rocky  crest ! 

From  which  he  leaps  into  the  scooping  brine, 
That  shocks  his  bosom  with  a  double  chill ; 
Because,  all  hours,  till  the  slow  sun's  decline, 
That  cold  divorcer  will  betwixt  them  still ; 
Wherefore  he  likens  it  to  Styx'  foul  tide, 
Where  life  grows  death  upon  the  other  side. 

Then  sadly  he  confronts  his  two-fold  toil 
Against  rude  waves  and  an  unwilling  mind, 
Wishing,  alas  !  with  the  stout  rower's  toil, 
That  like  a  rower  he  might  gaze  behind, 
And  watch  that  lonely  statue  he  hath  left 
On  her  bleak  summit,  weeping  and  bereft ! 


HERO    AND    LEANDER.  59 

Yet  turning  oft,  he  sees  her  troubled  locks 
Pursue  him  still  the  furthest  that  they  may ; 
Her  marble  arms  that  overstretch  the  rocks, 
And  her  pale  passioned  hands  that  seem  to  pray 
In  dumb  petition  to  the  gods  above  : 
Love  prays  devoutly  when  it  prays  for  love ! 

Then  with  deep  sighs  he  blows  away  the  wave, 
That  hangs  superfluous  tears  upon  his  cheek, 
And  bans  his  labor  like  a  hopeless  slave, 
That,  chained  in  hostile  galley,  faint  and  weak, 
Plies  on  despairing  through  the  restless  foam, 
Thoughtful  of  his  lost  love,  and  far-off  home. 

The  drowsy  mist  before  him  chill  and  dank, 

Like  a  dull  lethargy  o'erleans  the  sea, 

When  he  rows  on  against  the  utter  blank 

Steering  as  if  to  dim  eternity, — 

Like  Love's  frail  ghost  departing  with  the  dawn-, 

A  failing  shadow  in  the  twilight  drawn. 

And  soon  is  gone,  —  or  nothing  but  a  faint 
And  failing  image  in  the  eye  of  thought; 
That  mocks  his  model  with  an  after-paint, 
And  stains  an  atom  like  the  shape  she  sought ; 
Then  with  her  earnest  vows  she  hopes  to  fee 
The  old  and  hoary  majesty  of  sea. 

"O  King  of  waves,  and  brother  of  high  Jove, 
Preserve  my  sumless  venture  there  aHoat ; 
A  woman's  heart,  and  its  whole  wealth  of  love, 
Are  all  embarked  upon  that  little  boat; 
Nay,  but  two  Loves,  two  lives,  a  double  fate 
A  perilous  voyage  for  so  dear  a  freight. 


60  HERO    AND    LEANDER. 

'^If  impious  mariners  be  stained  with  crime, 
Shake  not  in  awful  rage  thy  hoary  locks ; 
Lay  by  thy  storms  until  another  time, 
Lest  my  frail  back  be  dashed  against  the  rocks  • 
Or  rather  smooth  thy  deeps  that  he  may  fiy 
Like  Love  himself,  upon  a  seeming  sky ! 

"  Let  all  thy  herded  monsters  sleep  beneath, 

Nor  gore  him  with  crooked  tusks,  or  wreathed  horns; 

Let  no  fierce  sharks  destroy  him  with  their  teeth, 

Nor  spine-fish  wound  him  with  their  venomed  thorns- 

But  if  he  faint,  and  timely  succor  lack, 

Let  ruthful  dolphins  rest  him  on  their  back. 

"Let  no  false  dimpling  whirlpools  suck  him  in, 
Nor  slimy  quicksands  smother  his  sweet  breath ; 
Let  no  jagged  corals  tear  his  tender  skin, 

Nor  mountain  billows  bury  him  in  death  ;" 

And  with  that  thought  forestalling  her  own  fears, 
She  drowned  his  painted  image  in  her  tears. 

By  this,  the  climbing  sun,  with  rest  repaired, 
Looked  through  the  gold  embrasures  of  the  sky, 

And  asked  the  drowsy  world  how  she  had  fared; 

The  drowsy  world  shone  brightened  in  reply; 
And  smiling  off  her  fogs,  his  slanting  beam 
Spied  young  Leander  in  the  middle  stream. 

His  face  was  pallid,  but  the  hectic  morn 
Had  hung  a  lying  crimson  on  his  cheeks, 
And  slanderous  sparkles  in  his  eyes  forlorn; 
So  death  lies  ambushed  in  consumptive  streaks; 
But  inward  grief  was  writhing  o'er  its  task, 
As  heart-sick  jesters  weep  behind  the  mask. 


HERO    AND    LEANDER.  (J1 

He  thought  of  Hero  and  the  lost  delight, 
Her  last  embracings,  and  the  space  between ; 
He  thought  of  Hero  and  the  future  night, 
Her  speechless  rapture  and  enamoured  mien, 
When,  lo !  before  him,  scarce  two  galleys'  space, 
His  thoughts  confronted  with  another  face  ! 

Her  aspect's  like  a  moon  divinely  fair, 
But  makes  the  midnight  darker  that  it  lies  on  ; 
Tis  so  beclouded  with  her  coal-black  hair 
That  densely  skirts  her  luminous  horizon, 
Making  her  doubly  fair,  thus  darkly  set, 
As  marble  lies  advantaged  upon  jet. 

She's  all  too  bright,  too  argent,  and  too  pale, 

To  be  a  woman  ;  —  but  a  woman's  double, 

Iteflected  on  the  wave  so  faint  and  frail, 

She  tops  the  billows  like  an  air-blown  bubble ; 

Or  dim  creation  of  a  morning  dream, 

Fair  as  the  wave-bleached  lily  of  the  stream. 

The  very  rumor  strikes  his  seeing  dead : 

Great  beauty  like  great  fear  first  stuns  the  sense : 

He  knows  not  if  her  lips  be  blue  or  red, 

Nor  of  her  eyes  can  give  true  evidence: 

Like  murder's  witness  swooning  in  the  court, 

His  sight  falls  senseless  by  its  own  report. 

Anon  resuming,  it  declares  her  eyes 
Are  tinct  with  azure,  like  two  crystal  wells 
That  drink  the  blue  complexion  of  the  skies, 
Or  pearls  out-peeping  from  their  silvery  shells  : 
Her  polished  brow,  it  is  an  ample  plain, 
To  lodge  vast  contemplations  of  the  main. 
6 


62  her!     and  leander. 

Her  lips  might  coral?  .seem,  but  corals  near, 
Stray  through  her  hair  like  blossoms  on  a  bower  j 
And  o'er  the  weaker  red  still  domineer, 
And  make  it  pale  by  tribute  to  more  power; 
Her  rounded  cheeks  are  of  still  paler  hue, 
Touched  by  the  bloom  of  water,  tender  blue. 

Thus  he  beholds  her  rocking  on  the  water, 
Under  the  glossy  umbrage  of  her  hair, 
Like  pearly  Amphitrite's  fairest  daughter, 
Naiad,  or  Nereid,  or  Siren  fair, 
Mislodging  music  in  her  pitiless  breast, 
A  nightingale  within  a  falcon's  nest. 

They  say  there  be  such  maidens  in  the  deep, 
Charming  poor  mariners,  that  all  too  near 
By  mortal  lullabies  fall  dead  asleep, 
As  drowsy  men  are  poisoned  through  the  ear ; 
Therefore  Leander's  fears  begin  to  urge, 
This  snowy  swan  is  come  to  sing  his  dirge. 

At  which  he  falls  into  a  deadly  chill, 
And  strains  his  eyes  upon  her  lips  apart ; 
Fearing  each  breath  to  feel  that  prelude  shrill, 
Pierce  through  his  marrow,  like  a  breath-blown  dart 
Shot  sudden  from  an  Indian's,  hollow  cane, 
With  mortal  venom  fraught,  and  fiery  pain. 

Here,  then,  poor  wretch,  how  he  begins  to  crowd 
A  thousand  thoughts  within  a  pulse's  space  ; 
There  seemed  so  brief  a  pause  of  life  allowed, 
His  mind  stretched  universal,  to  embrace 
The  whole  wide  world,  in  an  extreme  farewell,  — 
A  moment's  musing  —  but  an  age  to  telL 


HERO    AND    LEANDEH.  £3 

For  there  stood  Hero,  widowed  at  a  glance, 

The  foreseen  sum  of  many  a  tedious  fact, 

Pale  cheeks,  dim  eyes,  and  withered  countenance., 

A  wasted  ruin  that  no  wasting  lacked  ; 

Time's  tragic  consequents  ere  time  began, 

A  world  of  sorrow  in  a  tear-drop's  span. 

A  moment's  thinking  is  an  hour  in  words,  — 
An  hour  of  words  is  little  for  some  woes  ; 
Too  little  breathing  a  long  life  affords, 
For  love  to  paint  itself  by  perfect  shows ; 
Then  let  his  love  and  grief  unwronged  lie  dumb, 
Whilst  Fear,  and  that  it  fears,  together  come. 

As  when  the  crew,  hard  by  some  jutty  cape, 
Struck  pale  and  panicked  by  the  billows'  roar, 
Lay  by  all  timely  measures  of  escape, 
And  let  their  bark  go  driving  on  the  shore; 
So  frayed  Leander,  drifting  to  his  wreck, 
Gazing  on  Scylla,  falls  upon  her  neck. 

For  he  hath  all  forgot  the  swimmer's  art, 
The  rower's  cunning,  and  the  pilot's  skill, 
Letting  his  arms  fall  down  in  languid  part, 
Swayed  by  the  waves,  and  nothing  by  his  will, 
Till  soon  he  jars  against  that  glossy  skin, 
Solid  like  glass,  though  seemingly  as  thin. 

Lo  !  how  she  startles  at  the  warning  shock, 
And  straightway  uinls  him  to  her  radiant  breast, 
More  like  his  safe  smooth  harbor  than  his  rock ; 
Poor  wretch,  he  is  so  feint  and  toil-opprest,. 
He  cannot  loose  him  from  his  grappling  foe, 
Whether  for  love  or  hate,  she  lets  not  go. 


64  HEUO    AND    LEANDEK. 

His  eyes  are  blinded  with  the  sleety  brine, 
His  ears  are  deafened  with  the  wildering  noise ; 
He  asks  the  purpose  of  her  fell  design, 
But  foamy  waves  choke  up  his  struggling  voice; 
Under  the  ponderous  sea  his  body  dips, 
And  Hero's  name  dies  bubbling  on  his  lips. 

Look  how  a  man  is  lowered  to  his  grave  ; 
A  yearning  hollow  in  the  green  earth's  lap ; 
So  he  is  sunk  into  the  yawning  wave, 
The  plunging  sea  fills  up  the  watery  gap ; 
Anon  he  is  all  gone,  and  nothing  seen, 
But  likeness  of  green  turf  and  hillocks  green. 

And  where  he  swam  the  constant  sun  lies  sleeping, 
Over  the  verdant  plain  that  makes  his  bed  ; 
And  all  the  noisy  waves  go  freshly  leaping, 
Like  gamesome  boys  over  the  church-yard  dead ; 
The  light  in  vain  keeps  looking  for  his  face, 
Now  screaming  sea  fowl  settle  in  his  place. 

Yet  weep  and  watch  for  him,  though  all  in  vain  t 
Ye  moaning  billows,  seek  him  as  ye  wander ! 
Ye  gazing  sunbeams,  look  for  him  again  ! 
Ye  winds,  grow  hoarse  with  asking  for  Leander! 
Ye  did  but  spare  him  for  more  cruel  rape, 
Sea  storm  and  ruin  in  a  female  shape ! 

She  says  'tis  love  hath  bribed  her  to  this  deed, 
The  glancing  of  his  eyes  did  so  bewitch  her. 
O  bootless  theft !  unprofitable  meed ! 
Love's  treasury  is  sacked,  but  she  no  richer; 
The  sparkles  of  his  eyes  are  cold  and  dead, 
And  all  his  golden  looks  are  turned  to  lead ! 


HERO    AND    LEANDER.  Q§ 

She  Holds  the  casket,  but  her  simple  hand 
Hath  spilled  its  dearest  jewel  by  the  way  ; 
She  hath  life's  empty  garment  at  command, 
But  her  own  death  lies  covert  in  the  prey ; 
As  if  a  thief  should  steal  a  tainted  vest, 
Some  dead  man's  spoil,  and  sicken  of  his  pest 

Now  she  compels  him  to  her  deeps  below, 

Hiding  his  face  beneath  her  plenteous  hair, 

Which  jealously  she  shakes  all  round  her  brow, 

For  dread  of  envy,  though  no  eyes  are  there 

But  seals',  and  all  brute  tenants  of  the  deep, 

Which  heedless  through  the  wave  their  journeys  keep. 

Down  and  still  downward  through  the  dusky  green 

She  bore  him,  murmuring  with  joyous  haste 

In  too  rash  ignorance,  as  he  had  been 

Born  to  the  texture  of  that  watery  waste ; 

That  which  she  breathed  and  sighed,  the  emerald  wave, 

How  could  her  pleasant  home  become  his  grave  ! 

Down  and  still  downward  through  the  dusky  green 
She  bore  her  treasure,  with  a  face  too  nigh 
To  mark  how  life  was  altered  in  its  mien, 
Or  how  the  light  grew  torpid  in  his  eye, 
Or  how  his  pearly  breath,  imprisoned  there, 
Flew  up  to  join  the  universal  air. 

She  could  not  miss  the  throbbings  of  his  heart 
Whilst  her  own  pulse  so  wantoned  in  its  joy  ; 
She  could  not  guess  he  struggled  to  depart, 
And  when  he  strove  no  more,  the  hapless  boy: 
She  read  his  mortal  stillness  for  content, 
Feeling  no  fear  where  only  love  was  meant 


g6  HERO    AND    LEANDER. 

Soon  she  alights  upon  her  ocean-floor, 

And  straight  unyokes  her  arms  from  her  fair  prize ; 

Then  on  his  lovely  face  begins  to  pore, 

As  if  to  glut  her  soul ;  —  her  hungry  eyes 

Have  grown  so  jealous  of  her  arms'  delight; 

It  seems,  she  hath  no  other  sense  but  sight. 

But,  O,  sad  marvel !  O,  most  bitter  strange ! 
What  dismal  magic  makes  his  cheek  so  pale  ? 
Why  will  he  not  embrace,  —  why  not  exchange 
Her  kindly  kisses  ;  —  wherefore  not  exhale 
Some  odorous  message  from  life's  ruby  gates, 
Where  she  his  first  sweet  embassy  awaits  ? 

Her  eyes,  poor  watchers,  fixed  upon  his  looks, 
Are  grappled  with  a  wonder  near  to  grief, 
As  one  who  pores  on  undeciphered  books, 
Strains  vain  surmise,  and  dodges  with  belief; 
So  she  keeps  gazing  with  a  mazy  thought, 
Framing  a  thousand  doubts  that  end  in  nought. 

Too  stern  inscription  for  a  page  so  young, 
The  dark  translation  of  his  look  was  death ! 
But  death  was  written  in  an  alien  tongue, 
And  learning  was  not  by  to  give  it  breath ; 
So  one  deep  woe  sleeps  buried  in  its  seal, 
Which  Time,  untimely,  hast<?th  to  reveal. 

Meanwhile  ."he  sits  unconscious  of  her  hap, 
Nursing  Death's  marble  elJigy,  which  there 
With  heavy  head  lies  pi.'lowed  in  her  lap, 
And  elbows  all  unhinged  ;  —  his  sleeking  h?ir 
Creeps  o'er  her  knees,  and  settles  wh^re  his  band 
Leans  with  las  fingers  crooked  against  the  sand ; 


HERO    AND    LEANDER.  67 

And  there  lies  spread  in  many  an  oozy  trail, 
Like  glossy  weeds  hung  from  a  chalky  base, 
That  shows  no  whiter  than  his  brow  is  pale  ; 
So  soon  the  wintry  death  had  bleached  his  face 
Into  cold  marble,  —  with  blue  chilly  shades, 
Showing  wherein  the  freezy  blood  pervades. 

And  o'er  his  steadfast  cheek  a  furrowed  pain 
Hath  set,  and  stiffened  like  a  storm  in  ice, 
Showing  by  drooping  lines  the  deadly  strain 
Of  mortal  anguish  ;  —  yet  you  might  gaze  twice 
Ere  Death  it  seemed,  and  not  his  cousin,  Sleep, 
That  through  those  creviced  lids  did  underpeep. 

But  all  that  tender  bloom  about  his  eyes, 

Is  Death's  own  violets,  which  his  utmost  rite 

It  is  to  scatter  when  the  red  rose  dies  ; 

For  blue  is  chilly,  and  akin  to  white : 

Also  he  leaves  some  tinges  on  his  lips, 

Which  he  hath  kissed  with  such  cold  frosty  nips. 

"  Surely,"  quoth  she,  "  he  sleeps,  the  senseless  thing, 
Oppressed  and  faint  with  toiling  in  the  stream  ! " 
Therefore  she  will  not  mar  his  rest,  but  sing 
So  low,  her  tune  shall  mingle  with  his  dream ; 
Meanwhile,  her  lily  fingers  tasks  to  twine 
His  uncrispt  locks  uncurling  in  the  brine. 

"  O  lovely  boy  !  "  —  thus  she  attuned  her  voice, — 
"  Welcome,  thrice  welcome,  to  a  sea-maid's  home  ; 
Mv  love-mate  thou  shalt  be,  and  true  heart's  choice ; 
How  have  I  longed  such  a  twin-self  should  come, — 
A  lonely  tiling,  till  this  sweet  chance  befell, 
My  heart  kept  sighing  like  a  hollow  shell. 


G8  HERO    AND    LEANDEK. 

"  Here  thou  shalt  live  beneath  this  secret  dome, 

An  ocean-bower  ;  defended  by  the  shade 

Of  quiet  waters,  a  cool  emerald  gloom 

To  lap  thee  all  about.     Nay,  be  not  frayed. 

Those  are  but  shady  fishes  that  sail  by 

Like  antic  clouds  across  my  liquid  sky  ! 

"  Look  how  the  sunbeam  burns  upon  their  scales, 
And  shows  rich  glimpses  of  their  Tyrian  skins ; 
They  flash  small  lightnings  from  their  vigorous  tails, 
And  winking  stars  are  kindled  at  their  fins  ; 
These  shall  divert  thee  in  thy  weariest  mood, 
And  seek  thy  hand  for  gamesomeness  and  food. 

"  Lo  !  those  green  pretty  leaves  with  tassel  bells, 
My  flowerets  those,  that  never  pine  for  drowth  ; 
Myself  did  plant  them  in  the  dappled  shells, 
That  drink  the  wave  with  such  a  rosy  mouth,  — 
Pearls  wouldst  thou  have  beside  ?  crystals  to  shine  ? 
I  had  such  treasures  once;  —  now  they  are  thine. 

"  Now,  lay  thine  ear  against  this  golden  sand, 
And  thou  shalt  hear  the  music  of  the  sea, 
Those  hollow  tunes  it  plays  against  the  land,  — 
Is't  not  a  rich  and  wondrous  melody  ? 
I  have  lain  hours,  and  fancied  in  its  tone 
I  heard  the  languages  of  ages  gone ! 

"  I  too  can  sing  when  it  shall  please  thy  choice. 
And  breathe  soft  tunes  through  a  melodious  shell, 
Though  heretofore  I  have  but  set  my  voice 
To  some  long  sighs,  grief  harmonized,  to  tell 
How  desolate  I  fared  ;  —  but  this  sweet  change 
Will  add  new  notes  of  gladness  to  my  range ! 


HERO    AND    LEANDER.  fi9 

•  Or  bid  me  speak,  and  I  will  tell  thee  tales, 
Which  I  have  framed  out  of  the  noise  of  waves ; 
Ere  now,  I  have  communed  with  senseless  gales, 
And  held  vain  colloquies  with  barren  caves ; 
But  I  could  talk  to  thee  whole  days  and  days, 
Only  to  word  my  love  a  thousand  ways. 

"  But  if  thy  lips  will  bless  me  with  their  speech, 
Then  ope,  sweet  oracles  !  and  I'll  be  mute ; 
I  was  born  ignorant  for  thee  to  teach, 
Nay,  all  love's  lore  to  thy  dear  looks  impute ; 
Then  ope  thine  eyes,  fair  teachers,  by  whose  light 
I  saw  to  give  away  my  heart  aright ! " 

But  cold  and  deaf  the  sullen  creature  lies, 
Over  her  knees,  and  with  concealing  clay 
Like  hoarding  Avarice  locks  up  his  eves, 
And  leaves  her  world  impoverished  of  day  ; 
Then  at  his  cruel  lips  she  bends  to  plead, 
But  there  the  door  is  closed  against  her  need. 

Surely  he  sleeps,  —  so  her  false  wits  infer  ! 
Alas  !  poor  sluggard,  ne'er  to  wake  again  ! 
Surely  he  sleeps,  yet  without  any  stir 
That  might  denote  a  vision  in  his  bruin  ; 
Or  if  he  does  not  sleep,  he  feigns  too  long, 
Twice  she  hath  reached  the  ending  of  her  song. 

Therefore,  'tis  time  she  tells  him  to  uncover 
Those  radiant  jesters,  and  disperse  her  fears, 
Whereby  her  April  face  is  shaded  over, 
Like  rainy  clouds  just  ripe  for  showering  tears; 
Nay,  if  he  will  not  wake,  so  poor  she  gets, 
Herself  must  rob  those  locked  up  cabinets. 


70  HERO    AND    LEANDF.R. 

With  that  she  stoops  above  his  brow,  and  bids 
Her  busy  hands  forsake  his  tangled  hair, 
And  tenderly  lift  up  those  coffer-lids, 
That  she  may  gaze  upon  the  jewels  there, 
Like  babes  that  pluck  an  early  bud  apart, 
To  know  the  dainty  color  of  its  heart. 

Now,  picture  one,  soft  creeping  to  a  bed, 
Who  slowly  parts  the  hinge-hung  canopies, 
And  then  starts  back  to  find  the  sleeper  dead ; 
So  she  looks  in  on  his  uncovered  eyes, 
And  seeing  all  within  so  drear  and  dark, 
Her  own  bright  soid  dies  in  her  like  a  spark. 

Backward  she  falls,  like  a  pale  prophetess, 

Under  the  swoon  of  holy  divination  : 

And  what  had  all  surpassed  her  simple  guess, 

She  now  resolves  in  this  dark  revelation  ; 

Death's  very  mystery,  —  oblivious  death  ;  — 

Long  sleep,  —  deep  night,  and  an  entranced  breath. 

Yet  life,  though  wounded  sore,  not  wholly  slain, 
■Merely  obscured,  and  not  extinguished,  lies ; 
Her  breath,  that  stood  at  ebb,  soon  flows  again, 
Heaving  her  hollow  breast  with  heavy  sighs, 
And  light  comes  in  and  kindles  up  the  gloom, 
To  light  her  spirit  from  its  transient  tomb. 

Then  like  the  sun,  awakened  at  new  dawn, 
With  pale  bewildered  face  she  peers  about, 
And  spies  blurred  images  obscurely  drawn, 
Uncertain  shadows  in  a  haze  of  doubt ; 
But  her  true  grief  grows  shapely  by  degrees, 
A  perished  creature  lying  on  her  knees. 


HERO    AND    LEANDEll.  71 

And  now  she  knows  how  that  old  Murthcr  preys, 
Whose  quarry  on  her  lap  lies  newly  slain : 
How  he  roams  all  abroad  and  grimly  slays, 
Like  a  lean  tiger  in  Love's  own  domain ; 
Parting  fond  mates,  —  and  oft  in  flowery  lawns 
Bereaves  mild  mothers  of  their  milky  fawns. 

O,  too  dear  knowledge  !     O,  pernicious  earning  ! 
Foul  curse  engraven  upon  beauty's  page ! 
Even  now  the  sorrow  of  that  deadly  learning 
Ploughs  up  her  brow,  like  an  untimely  age, 
And  on  her  cheek  stamps  verdict  of  death's  truth 
By  canker  blights  upon  the  bud  of  youth ! 

For  as  unwholesome  winds  decay  the  leaf, 
So  her  cheeks'  rose  is  perished  by  her  sighs, 
And  withers  in  the  sickly  breath  of  grief; 
Whilst  unacquainted  rheum  bedims  her  eyes, 
Tears,  virgin  tears,  the  first  that  ever  leapt 
Frcm  those  young  lids,  now  plentifully  wept. 

Whence  being  shed,  the  liquid  crystalline 
Drops  straightway  down,  refusing  to  partake 
In  gross  admixture  with  the  baser  brine, 
But  shrinks  and  hardens  into  pearls  opaque, 
Hereafter  to  be  worn  on  arms  and  ears; 
So  one  maid's  trophy  is  another's  tears ! 

"  O,  foul  Arch-Shadow,  thou  old  cloud  of  Night," 
(Thus  in  her  frenzy  she  began  to  Mail,) 
"Thou  blank  oblivion  —  blotter  out  of  light, 
Life's  ruthless  murderer,  and  dear  Love's  bale! 
Why  hast  thou  left  thy  havoc  incomplete, 
Leaving  me  here,  and  slaying  the  more  sweet  f 


72  HERO    AND    LEANDER. 

"  Lo !  what  a  lovely  ruin  thou  hast  made .' 
Alas  !  alas  !  thou  hast  no  eyes  to  see, 
And  blindly  slew'st  him  in  misguided  shade. 
Would  I  had  lent  my  doting  sense  to  thee ! 
But  now  I  turn  to  thee,  a  willing  mark, 
Thine  arrows  miss  me  in  the  aimless  dark ! 

"  O,  doubly  cruel !  —  twice  misdoing  spite, 

But  I  will  guide  thee  with  my  helping  eyes, 

Or  walk  the  wide  world  through,  devoid  of  sight, 

Vet  thou  shalt  know  me  by  my  many  sighs. 

Nay,  then  thou  shouldst  have  spared  my  rose,  false  Death, 

And  known  Love's  flower  by  smelling  his  sweet  breath ; 

"  Or,  when  thy  furious  rage  was  round  him  dealing, 
Love  should  have  grown  from  touching  of  his  skin ; 
But  like  cold  marble  thou  art  all  unfeeling, 
And  hast  no  ruddy  springs  of  warmth  within, 
And  being  but  a  shape  of  freezing  bone, 
Thy  touching  only  turned  my  love  to  stone '. 

"  And  here,  alas  !  he  lies  across  my  knees, 
With  cheeks  still  colder  than  the  stilly  wave, 
The  light  beneath  his  eyelids  seems  to  freeze  ; 
Here  then,  since  Love  is  dead  and  lacks  a  grave, 
O,  come  and  dig  it  in  my  sad  heart's  core  — 
That  wound  will  bring  a  balsam  for  its  sore  ! 

"  For  art  thou  not  a  sleep  where  sense  of  ill 
Lies  atingless,  like  a  sense  benumbed  with  cold, 
Healing  all  hurts  only  with  sleep's  good  will  ? 
So  shall  I  slumber,  and  perchance  behold 
My  living  love  in  dreams,  —  O,  happy  night, 
That  lets  me  company  his  banished  spright ! 


HERO    AND    LEANDEll.  J3 

"  O,  poppy  death  !  —  sweet  poisoner  of  sleep  ; 
Where  shall  I  seek  for  thee,  oblivious  drug, 
That  I  may  steep  thee  in  my  drink,  and  creep 
Out  of  life's  coil  ?     Look,  Idol !  how  I  hug 
Thy  dainty  image  in  this  strict  embrace, 
And  kiss  this  clay-cold  model  of  thy  face  ! 

"  Put  out,  put  out  these  sun-consuming  lamps  ! 
I  do  but  read  my  sorrows  by  their  shine ; 
O,  come  and  quench  them  with  thy  oozy  damps, 
And  let  my  darkness  intermix  with  thine  ; 
Cilice  love  is  blinded,  wherefore  should  I  see  ? 
Now  love  is  death,  —  death  will  be  love  to  me  ! 

"  Away,  away,  this  vain  complaining  breath, 
It  does  but  stir  the  troubles  that  I  weep  ; 
Let  it  be  hushed  and  quieted,  sweet  Death  ; 
The  wind  must  settle  ere  the  wave  can  sleep,  — 
Since  love  is  silent  I  would  fain  be  mute ; 
O,  Death,  be  gracious  to  my  dying  suit ! " 

Thus  far  she  pleads,  but  pleading  nought  avails  her, 
For  Death,  her  sullen  burthen,  deigns  no  heed  ; 
Then  with  dumb  craving  arms,  since  darkness  fails  her, 
She  prays  to  heaven's  fair  light,  as  if  her  need 
Inspired  her  there  were  gods  to  pity  pain, 
Or  end  it,  —  but  she  lifts  her  arms  ai  vain  ! 

Poor  gilded  Grief!  the  subtle  light  by  this 
With  mazy  gold  creeps  through  her  watery  mine, 
And,  diving  downward  through  the  green  abyss, 
Lights  up  her  palace  with  an  amber  shine  ; 
There,  falling  on  her  arms,  — the  crystal  skin 
Reveals  the  ruby  tide  that  fares  within. 
'7 


74  HERO    AM)    I.KANDER. 

Look  how  the  fulsome  beam  would  hang  a  glory 
On  her  dark  hair,  but  the  dark  hairs  repel  it ; 
Look  how  the  perjured  glow  suborns  a  story 
On  her  pale  lips,  but  lips  refuse  to  tell  it ; 
Grief  will  not  swerve  from  grief,  however  told 
On  coral  lips,  or  charactered  in  gold  ; 

Or  else,  thou  maid  !  safe  anchored  on  Love's  neck, 
Listing  the  hapless  doom  of  young  Leander, 
Thou  wouldst  not  shed  a  tear  for  that  old  wreck, 
Sitting  secure  where  no  wild  surges  wander ; 
Whereas  the  woe  moves  on  with  tragic  pace, 
And  shows  its  sad  reflection  in  thy  face. 

Thus  having  travelled  on,  and  tracked  the  tale 
Like  the  due  course  of  an  old  bas-relief, 
Where  Tragedy  pursues  her  progress  pale, 
Brood  here  a  while  upon  that  sea-maid's  grief, 
And  take  a  deeper  imprint  from  the  frieze 
Of  that  young  Fate,  with  Death  upon  her  knees. 

Then  whilst  the  melancholy  Muse  withal 
Kesumes  her  music  in  a  sadder  tone, 
Meanwhile  the  sunbeam  strikes  upon  the  wall, 
Conceive  that  lovely  siren  to  live  on, 
Even  as  Hope  whispered,  the  Promethean  light 
Would  kindle  up  the  dead  Leander's  spright. 

"  'Tis  light,"  she  says,  "  that  feeds  the  glittering  stars, 
And  those  were  stars  set  in  his  heavenly  brow ; 
But  this  salt  cloud,  this  cold  sea  vapor,  mars 
Their  radiant  breathing,  and  obscures  them  now  ; 
Therefore  I'll  lay  him  in  the  clear  blue  air, 
And  see  how  these  dull  orbs  will  kindle  there." 


HEKO    AND    LEANDER.  7<J 

Swiftly  as  dolphins  glide,  or  swifter  yet, 
With  dead  Leander  in  her  fond  arms'  fold, 
She  cleaves  the  meshes  of  that  radiant  net 
The  sun  hath  twined  above  of  liquid  gold, 
Nor  slacks  till  on  the  margin  of  the  land 
She  lays  his  body  on  the  glowing  sand. 

There,  like  a  pearly  waif,  just  past  the  reach 
Of  foamy  billows  he  lies  cast.     Just  then, 
Some  listless  fishers,  straying  down  the  beach, 
Spy  out  this  wonder.     Thence  the  curious  men, 
Low  crouching,  creep  into  a  thicket  brake, 
And  watch  her  doings  till  their  rude  hearts  ache. 

First  she  begins  to  chafe  him  till  she  faints, 
Then  falls  upon  his  mouth  with  kisses  many, 
And  sometimes  pauses  in  her  own  complaints 
To  list  his  breathing,  but  there  is  not  any, — 
Then  looks  into  his  eyes  where  no  light  dwells ; 
Light  makes  no  pictures  in  such  muddy  wells. 

The  hot  sun  parches  his  discovered  eyes, 

The  hot  sun  beats  on  his  discolored  limbs, 

The  sand  is  oozy  whereupon  he  lies, 

Soiling  his  fairness  ;  —  then  away  she  swims, 

Meaning  to  gather  him  a  daintier  bed, 

Plucking  the  cool  fresh  weeds,  brown,  green,  and  red, 

But,  simple-witted  thief,  while  she  dives  under, 
Another  robs  her  of  her  amorous  theft ; 
The  ambushed  fishermen  creep  forth  to  plunder, 
Ami  steal  the  umvatched  treasure  she  has  left; 
Only  his  void  impression  dints  the  sands : 
Leander  is  purloined  by  stealthy  hands! 


?G  HERO    AND    LEANDER. 

Lo  !  how  she  shudders  off  the  headed  wave ! 
Like  Grief  all  over  tears,  and  senseless  falls, 
His  void  imprint  seems  hollowed  for  her  grave; 
Then,  rising  on  her  knees,  looks  round  and  calls 
On  Hero  !  Hero !  —  having  learned  this  name 
Of  his  last  hreath,  she  calls  him  by  the  same. 

Then  with  her  frantic  hands  she  rends  her  hairs, 
And  casts  them  forth,  sad  keepsakes,  to  the  wind, 
As  if  in  plucking  those  she  plucked  her  cares ; 
But  grief  lies  deeper,  and  remains  behind 
Like  a  barbed  arrow,  rankling  in  her  brain, 
Turning  her  very  thoughts  to  throbs  of  pain. 

Anon  her  tangled  locks  are  left  alone, 
And  down  upon  the  sand  she  meekly  sits, 
Hard  by  the  foam,  as  humble  as  a  stone, 
Like  an  enchanted  maid  beside  her  wits, 
That  ponders  with  a  look  serene  and  tragic, 
Stunned  by  the  mighty  mystery  of  magic. 

Or  think  of  Ariadne's  utter  trance, 

Crazed  by  the  flight  of  that  disloyal  traitor, 

Who  left  her  gazing  on  the  green  expanse 

That  swallowed  up  his  track,  —  yet  this  would  mate  hen 

Even  in  the  cloudy  summit  of  her  woe, 

When  o'er  the  far  sea-brim  she  saw  him  go. 

For  even  so  she  bows,  and  bends  her  gaze 

O'er  the  eternal  waste,  as  if  to  sum 

Its  waves  by  weary  thousands  all  her  davs, 

Dismally  doomed  !  meanwhile  the  billows  come, 

And  coldly  dabble  with  her  quiet  feet, 

Like  any  bleaching  stones  they  wont  to  greet. 


HERO    AND    LEA.NDER.  77 

And  thence  into  her  lap  have  boldly  sprung, 

Washing  her  weedy  tresses  to  and  fro, 

That  round  her  crouching  knees  have  darkly  hung; 

But  she  sits  careless  of  waves'  ebb  and  How, 

Like  a  lone  beacon  on  a  desert  coast, 

Showing  where  all  her  hope  was  wrecked  and  lost. 

Yet  whether  in  the  sea  or  vaulted  sky, 

She  knoweth  not  her  love's  abrupt  resort, 

So  like  a  shape  of  dreams  he  left  her  eye, 

Winking  with  doubt.     Meanwhile,  the  churls'  report 

Has  thronged  the  beach  with  many  a  curious  face, 

That  peeps  upon  her  from  its  hiding-place. 

And  here  a  head,  and  there  a  brow  half  seen, 

Dodges  behind  a  rock.     Here  on  his  hands 

A  mariner  his  crumpled  cheeks  doth  lean 

Over  a  rugged  crest.     Another  stands, 

Holding  his  harmful  arrow  at  the  head, 

Still  checked  by  human  caution  and  strange  dread. 

One  stops  his  ears,  —  another  close  beholder 

Whispers  unto  the  next  his  grave  surmise; 

This  crouches  down,  —  and  just  above  his  shoulder, 

A  woman's  pity  saddens  in  her  eyes, 

And  prompts  her  to  befriend  that  lonely  grief, 

With  all  sweet  helps  of  sisterly  relief. 

And  down  the  sunny  beach  she  paces  slowly, 
With  many  doubtful  pauses  by  the  way ; 
Grief  hath  an  influence  so  hushed  and  holy, — 
Making  her  twice  attempt,  ere  she  can  lay 
Her  hand  upon  that  sea-maid's  shoulder  white, 
Which  makes  her  startle  up  in  wild  affright. 
7* 


78  HERO    AND    LEAXDER. 

And,  like  a  seal,  she  leaps  into  the  wave, 
That  drowns  the  shrill  remainder  of  her  scream ; 
Anon  the  sea  fills  up  the  watery  cave, 
And  seals  her  exit  with  a  foamy  seam, — 
Leaving  those  baffled  gazers  on  the  beach, 
Turning  in  uncouth  wonder  each  to  each. 

Some  watch,  some  call,  some  see  her  head  emerge, 
Wherever  a  brown  weed  falls  through  the  foam ; 
Some  point  to  white  eruptions  of  the  surge :  — 
But  she  is  vanished  to  her  shady  home, 
Under  the  deep,  inscrutable,  —  and  there 
Weeps  in  a  midnight  made  of  her  own  hair. 

Now  here  the  sighing  winds,  before  uuheard, 
Forth  from  their  cloudy  caves  begin  to  blow, 
Till  all  the  surface  of  the  deep  is  stirred, 
Like  to  the  panting  grief  it  hides  below ; 
And  heaven  is  covered  with  a  stormy  rack 
Soiling  the  waters  with  its  inky  black. 

The  screaming  fowl  resigns  her  finny  prey, 
And  labors  shoreward  with  a  bending  wing, 
Rowing  against  the  wind  her  toilsome  way  ; 
Meanwhile,  the  curling  billows  chafe,  and  fling 
Their  dewy  frost  still  further  on  the  stones, 
That  answer  to  the  wind  with  hollow  groans. 

And  here  and  there  a  fisher's  far-off  bark 
Flies  with  the  sun's  last  glimpse  upon  its  sail, 
Like  a  bright  flame  amid  the  waters  dark, 
Watched  with  the  hope  and  fear  of  maidens  pale, 
And  anxious  mothers  that  upturn  their  brows, 
Freighting  the  gusty  wind  with  frequent  vows, 


HERO    AND    LEANDER.  79 

For  that  the  horrid  deep  has  no  sure  track 
To  guide  love  safe  into  his  homely  haven. 
And,  lo  !  the  storm  grows  blacker  in  its  wrath, 
O'er  the  dark  billow  brooding  like  a  raven, 
That  bodes  of  death  and  widow's  sorrowing, 
Under  the  dusty  covert  of  his  wing. 

And  so  day  ended.     But  no  vesper  spark 
Hung  forth  its  heavenly  sign  ;  but  sheets  of  flame 
Played  round  the  savage  features  of  the  dark, 
Making  night  horrible.     That  night,  there  came 
A  weeping  maiden  to  high  Sestos'  steep, 
And  tore  her  hair  and  gazed  upon  the  deep, 

And  waved  aloft  her  bright  and  ruddy  torch, 
Whose  flame  the  boastful  wind  so  rudely  fanned, 
That  oft  it  would  recoil,  and  basely  scorch 
The  tender  covert  of  her  sheltering  hand  ; 
Which  yet,  for  love's  dear  sake,  disdained  retire, 
And,  like  a  glorying  martyr,  braved  the  fire. 

For  that  was  love's  own  sign  and  beacon  guide 
Across  the  Hellespont's  wide  weary  space, 
Wherein  he  nightly  struggled  with  the  tide ; 
Look  wliat  a  red  it  forges  on  her  face, 
As  if  she  blushed  at  holding  such  a  light, 
Even  in  the  unseen  presence  of  the  night ! 

Whereas  her  tragic  cheek  is  truly  pale, 

And  colder  than  the  rude  and  ruffian  air 

That  howls  into  her  ear  a  horrid  tale 

Of  storm,  and  wreck,  and  uttermost  despair, 

Saying,  "Leander  floats  amid  the  surge, 

And  those  are  dismal  waves  that  sing  his  dirge." 


80  HERO    AND    LEA.NDEU. 

And,  hark !  —  a  grieving  voice,  trembling  and  faint, 
Blends  with  the  hollow  sobbings  of  the  sea ; 
Like  the  sad  music  of  a  siren's  plaint, 
But  shriller  than  Leander's  voice  should  be, 
Unless  the  wintry  death  had  changed  its  tone,  — 
Wherefore  she  thinks  she  hears  his  spirit  moan. 

For  now,  upon  each  brief  and  breathless  pause 
Made  by  the  raging  winds,  it  plainly  calls 
On  Hero  !  Hero  !  —  whereupon  she  draws 
Close  to  the  dizzy  brink,  that  ne'er  appalls 
Her  brave  and  constant  spirit  to  recoil, 
However  the  wild  billows  toss  and  toil. 

"  O !  dost  thou  live  under  the  deep,  deep  sea  ? 
I  thought  such  love  as  thine  could  never  die  ; 
If  thou  hast  gained  an  immortality 
From  the  kind  pitying  sea-god,  so  will  I ; 
And  this  false  cruel  tide,  that  used  to  sever 
Our  hearts,  shall  be  our  common  home  forever ! 

"  There  we  will  sit  and  sport  upon  one  billow, 
And  sing  our  ocean-ditties  all  the  day, 
And  lie  together  on  the  same  green  pillow, 
That  curls  above  us  with  its  dewy  spray ; 
And  ever  in  one  presence  live  and  dwell, 
Like  two  twin  pearls  within  the  self-same  shell" 

One  moment,  then,  upon  the  dizzy  verge 

She  stands ;  —  with  face  upturned  against  the  sky  ; 

A  moment  more,  upon  the  foamy  surge 

She  gazes,  with  a  calm  despairing  eye ; 

Feeling  that  awful  pause  of  blood  and  breath 

Winch  life  endures  when  it  <x>nfronts  with  death ;  — 


HERO    AND    LEANDER.  81 


/hen  from  the  giddy  deep  she  madly  springs, 

Grasping  her  maiden  robes,  that  vainly  kept 

Panting  abroad,  like  unavailing  wings, 

To  save  her  from  her  death.  —  The  sea-maid  wept, 

And  in  a  crystal  cave  her  corse  enshrined ; 

No  meaner  sepulchre  should  Hero  find ! 


THE   ELM   TREE: 

A    DREAM    IN    THE    WOODS. 

"And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt, 
Finds  tongues  in  trees.''  As  You  Like  It. 

Twas  in  a  shady  avenue, 
Where  lofty  elms  abound  — 
And  from  a  tree 
There  came  to  ms 
A  sad  and  solemn  sound, 
That  sometimes  murmured  overhead, 
And  sometimes  underground. 

Amongst  the  leaves  it  seemed  to  sigh, 
Amid  the  boughs  to  moan  ; 

It  muttered  in  the  stem,  and  then 
The  roots  took  up  the  tone  ; 

As  if  beneath  the  dewy  grass 
The  dead  began  to  groan. 

No  breeze  there  was  to  stir  the  leaves ; 

No  bolts  that  tempests  launch, 
To  rend  the  trunk  or  rugged  bark ; 

No  gale  to  bend  the  branch ; 
No  quake  of  earth  to  heave  the  roots, 

That  stood  so  stiff  and  stanch. 

(82) 


THE    ELM    TREE.  g3 

No  bird  was  preening  up  aloft, 

To  rustle  with  its  wing ; 
No  squirrel,  in  its  sport  or  fear, 
From  bough  to  bough  to  spring ; 
The  solid  bole 
Had  ne'er  a  hole 
To  hide  a  living  thing  ! 

No  scooping  hollow  cell  to  lodge 
A  furtive  beast  or  fowl, 
The  martin,  bat, 
Or  forest  cat 
That  nightly  loves  to  prowl, 
Nor  ivy  nook  so  apt  to  shroud 
The  moping,  snoring  owl. 

But  still  the  sound  was  in  my  ear, 

A  sad  and  solemn  sound, 
That  sometimes  murmured  overhead, 

And  sometimes  underground  — 
'Twas  in  a  shady  avenue 

Where  lofty  elms  abound. 

O,  hath  the  Dryad  still  a  tongue 

In  this  ungenial  clime? 
Have  sylvan  spirits  still  a  voice 

As  in  the  classic  prime  — 
To  make  the  forest  voluble, 

As  in  the  olden  time  ? 

The  olden  time  is  dead  and  gone  ; 

Its  years  have  filled  their  sum  — 
And  even  in  Greece  —  her  native  Greece  — • 

The  sylvan  nymph  is  dumb  — 
From  ash,  and  beech,  and  aged  oak, 

No  classic  whispers  come. 


84  11IE    ELM    THEE. 

From  poplar,  pine,  and  drooping  birch, 
And  fragrant  linden  trees, 
No  living  sound 
E'er  hovers  round, 
Unless  the  vagrant  breeze, 
The  music  of  the  merry  bird, 
Or  hum  of  busy  bees. 

But  busy  bees  forsake  the  elm 
That  bears  no  bloom  aloft  — 

The  finch  was  in  the  hawthorn-bush, 
The  blackbird  in  the  croft ; 

And  among  the  firs  the  brooding  dove, 
That  else  might  murmur  soft. 

Yet  still  I  heard  that  solemn  sound, 

And  sad  it  was  to  boot, 
From  every  overhanging  bough, 

And  each  minuter  shoot ; 
From  rugged  trunk  and  mossy  rind, 

And  from  the  twisted  root. 

From  these,  —  a  melancholy  moan; 

From  those,  —  a  dreary  sigh ; 
As  if  the  boughs  were  wintry  bare, 

And  wild  winds  sweeping  by  — 
Whereas  the  smallest  fleecy  cloud 

Was  steadfast  in  the  sky. 

No  sign  or  touch  of  stirring  air 
Could  either  sense  observe  — 

The  zephyr  had  not  breath  enough 
The  thistle-down  to  swerve, 

Or  force  the  filmy  gossamers 
To  take  another  curve. 


THE    ELM    TREr.  85 

In  still  and  silent  slumber  hushed 

All  Nature  seemed  to  be  : 
From  heaven  above,  or  earth  beneath, 

No  whisper  came  to  me  — 
Except  the  solemn  sound  and  sad 

From  that  Mysterious  Tree  ! 

A  hollow,  hollow,  hollow  sound, 

As  is  that  dreamy  roar 
When  distant  billows  boil  and  bound 

Along  a  shingly  shore  — 
But  the  ocean  brim  was  far  aloof, 

A  hundred  miles  or  more. 

No  murmur  of  the  gusty  sea, 

No  tumult  of  the  beach, 
However  they  may  foam  and  fret, 

The  bounded  sense  could  reach  — 
Methought  the  trees  in  mystic  tongue 

Were  talking  each  to  each !  — 

Mavhap,  rehearsing  ancient  tales 
Of  greenwood  love  or  guilt, 
Of  whispered  vows 
Beneath  their  boughs ; 
Or  blood  obscurely  spilt ; 
Or  of  that  near-baud  iimnsion-house 
A  royal  Tudor  built. 

Perchance,  of  booty  Avon  or  shared 

Beneath  the  starry  cope  — 
Or  where  the  suicidal  wretch 

I  rung  up  the  fatal  rope  ; 
Or  Beauty  kept  an  evil  tryste, 

Ensnared  by  Love  and  Hope. 
8 


86  THE    ELM    TttEE. 

Of  graves,  perchance,  untimely  scooped 

At  midnight  dark  and  dank  — 
And  what  is  underneath  the  sod 
Whereon  the  grass  is  rank  — 
Of  old  intrigues, 
And  privy  leagues, 
Tradition  leaves  in  blank. 

Of  traitor  lips  that  muttered  plots  — 
Of  kin  who  fought  and  fell  — 

God  knows  the  undiscovered  schemes, 
The  arts  and  acts  of  hell, 

Performed  long  generations  since, 
If  trees  had  tongues  to  tell ! 

With  wary  eyes,  and  ears  alert, 

As  one  who  walks  afraid, 
I  wandered  down  the  dappled  path 

Of  mingled  light  and  shade  — 
How  sweetly  gleamed  that  arch  of  blue 

Beyond  the  green  arcade  ! 

How  cheerly  shone  the  glimpse  of  heaven 

Beyond  that  verdant  aisle  ! 
All  overarched  with  lofty  elms, 
That  quenched  the  light,  the  while, 
As  dim  and  chill 
As  serves  to  fill 
Some  old  cathedral  pile  ! 

And  many  a  gnarled  trunk  was  there, 

That  ages  long  had  stood, 
Till  Time  had  wrought  them  into  shapes 

Like  Pan's  fantastic  brood ; 
Or  still  more  foul  and  hideous  forms 

That  pagans  carve  in  wood ! 


THE    ELM    TREE. 

A  crouching  Satyr  lurking  here  — 
And  there  a  Goblin  grim  — 

As  staring  full  of  demon  life 
As  Gothic  sculptor's  whim  — 

A  marvel  it  had  scarcely  been 
To  hear  a  voice  from  him  ! 

Some  whisper  from  that  horrid  mouth 
Of  strange,  unearthly  tone  ; 

Or  wild  infernal  laugh,  to  chill 
One's  marrow  in  the  bone. 

But  no  —  it  grins  like  rigid  Death, 
And  silent  as  a  stone ! 

As  silent  as  its  fellows  be, 

For  all  is  mute  with  them  — 
The  branch  that  climbs  the  leafy  roof — 
The  rough  and  mossy  stem  —    • 
The  crooked  root, 
And  tender  shoot, 
Where  hangs  the  dewy  gem. 

One  mystic  tree  alone  there  is, 
Of  sad  and  solemn  sound  — 

That  sometimes  murmurs  overhead, 
And  sometimes  underground  — 

In  all  that  shady  avenue, 
Where  lofty  elms  abound. 


87 


-• — 


PART  II. 


The  scene  is  changed !     No  green  arcade, 
No  trees  all  ranged  a-row  — 


gg  THE    ELM    TREE. 

But  scattered  like  a  beaten  host, 

Dispersing  to  and  fro ; 
With  here  and  there  a  sylvan  corse, 

That  fell  before  the  foe. 

The  foe  that  down  in  yonder  dell 

Pursues  bis  daily  toil ; 
As  witness  many  a  prostrate  trunk, 

Bereft  of  leafy  spoil, 
Hard  by  its  wooden  stump,  whereon 

The  adder  loves  to  coil. 

Alone  he  works  —  his  ringing  blows 
Have  banished  bird  and  beast ; 

Tbe  hind  and  fawn  bave  cantered  off 
A  hundred  yards  at  least ; 

And  on  the  maple's  lofty  top 
The  linnet's  song  lias  ceased. 


o 


No  eye  his  labor  overlooks, 
Or  when  he  takes  his  rest ; 

Except  the  timid  thrush  that  peeps 
Above  her  secret  nest, 

Forbid  by  love  to  leave  the  young 
Beneath  her  speckled  breast. 

The  woodman's  heart  is  in  his  work, 

His  axe  is  sharp  and  good  ; 
With  sturdy  arm  and  steady  aim 
He  smites  the  gaping  wood  ; 
From  distant  rocks 
His  lusty  knocks 
Reecho  many  a  rood. 


THE    ELM    TREE.  gO, 

His  axe  is  keen,  his  arm  is  strong; 

The  muscles  serve  him  well ; 
His  years  have  reached  an  extra  span, 

The  number  none  can  tell ; 
But  still  his  life-long  task  has  been 

The  timber  tree  to  fell. 

Through  summer's  parching  sultriness 
And  winter's  freezing  cold, 
From  sapling  youth 
To  virile  growth, 
And  age's  rigid  mould, 
His  energetic  axe  hath  rung 
Within  that  forest  old. 

Aloft,  upon  his  poising  steel 

The  vivid  sunbeams  glance  — 
About  his  head  and  round  his  feet 

The  forest  shadows  dance  ; 
And  bounding  from  his  russet  coat 

The  acorn  drops  askance. 

His  face  is  like  a  Druid's  face, 

With  wrinkles  furrowed  deep, 
And  tanned  by  scorching  suns  as  brown 

As  corn  that's  ripe  to  reap ; 
But  the  hair  on  brow,  and  cheek,  and  chin, 

Is  white  as  wool  of  sheep. 

His  frame  is  like  a  giant's  frame ; 

1 1  is  legs  are  long  and  stark; 
His  arms  like  limbs  of  knotted  yew; 
His  hands  like  rugged  bark  ; 
So  he  felleth  still, 
With  right  good  will, 
As  if  to  build  an  ark  ! 
8* 


90  THE    ELM    THEE. 

O !  well  within  his  fatal  path 

The  fearful  tree  might  quake 
Through  ever}-  fibre,  twig,  and  leaf, 
With  aspen  tremor  shake  ; 
Through  trunk  and  root, 
And  branch  and  shoot, 
A  low  complaining  make  ! 

O!  well  to  him  the  tree  might  breathe 
A  sad  and  solemn  sound, 

A  sigh  that  murmured  overhead, 
And  groans  from  underground  ; 

As  in  that  shad)-  avenue 
Where  lofty  elms  abound ! 

But  calm  and  mute  the  maple  stands, 
The  plane,  the  ash,  the  fir, 

The  elm,  the  beech,  the  drooping  birch, 
Without  the  least  demur  ; 

And  e'en  the  aspen's  hoary  leaf 
Makes  no  unusual  stir. 

The  pines  —  those  old  gigantic  pines, 
That  writhe  —  recalling  soon 

The  famous  human  group  that  writhes 
With  snakes  in  wild  festoon  — 

In  ramous  wrestlings  interlaced 
A  forest  Laocoon  — 

Like  Titans  of  primeval  girth 

By  tortures  overcome, 
Their  brown  enormous  limbs  they  twine, 

Bedewed  with  tears  of  gum  — 
Fierce  agonies  that  ought  to  yell, 

But,  like  the  marble,  dumb. 


THE    ELM    THEE.  9 J 

Nay,  yonder  blasted  elm  that  stands 

So  like  a  man  of  sin, 
Who,  frantic,  flings  his  arms  abroad 

To  feel  the  worm  within  — 
For  all  that  gesture,  so  intense, 

It  makes  no  sort  of  din  ! 

An  universal  silence  reigns 

In  rugged  bark  or  peel, 
Except  that  very  trunk  which  rings 

Beneath  the  biting  steel  — 
Meanwhile  the  woodman  plies  his  axe 

With  unrelenting  zeal ! 

No  rustic  snug  is  on  his  tongue, 

No  whistle  on  his  lips  ; 
But,  with  a  quiet  thoughtfulness 

His  trusty  tool  he  grips, 
And,  stroke  on  stroke,  keeps  hacking  out 

The  bright  and  flying  chips. 

Stroke  after  stroke,  with  frequent  dint 

He  spreads  the  fatal  gash  ; 
Till,  lo  !  the  remnant  fibres  rend, 

With  harsh  and  sudden  crash, 
And  on  the  dull-resounding  turf 

The  jarring  branches  lash  ! 

O !  now  the  forest  trees  may  sigh, 

The  ash,  the  poplar  tall, 
The  elm,  the  birch,  the  drooping  beech, 
The  aspens  —  one  and  all, 
With  solemn  groan 
And  hollow  moan 
Lament  a  comrade's  fall ! 


92  THE    ELM    TREE. 

A  goodly  elm,  of  noble  girth, 
That,  thrice  the  human  span  — 

While  on  their  variegated  course 
The  constant  seasons  ran  — 

Through  gale,  and  hail,  and  fiery  bolt, 
Had  stood  erect  as  man. 

But  now.  like  mortal  man  himself, 
Struck  down  by  hand  of  God, 

Or  heathen  idol  tumbled  prone 
Beneath  the  Eternal's  nod, 

In  all  its  giant  bulk  and  length 
It  lies  along  the  sod  ! 

Ay,  now  the  forest  trees  may  grieve 
And  make  a  common  moan 

Around  that  patriarchal  trunk 
So  newly  overthrown  ; 

And  with  a  murmur  recognize 
A  doom  to  be  their  own ! 

The  echo  sleeps  :  the  idle  axe, 

A  disregarded  tool, 
Lies  crushing  with  its  passive  weight 

The  toad's  reputed  stool  — 
The  woodman  wipes  his  dewy  brow 

Within  the  shadows  cool. 

No  zephyr  stirs  :  the  ear  may  catch 
The  smallest  insect  hum  ; 

But  on  the  disappointed  sense 
No  mystic  whispers  come  ; 

No  tone  of  sylvan  sympathy, 
The  forest  trees  are  dumb. 


THE    ELM    TREE.  93 

No  leafy  noise,  nor  inward  voice, 

No  sad  and  solemn  sound, 
That  sometimes  murmurs  overhead, 

And  sometimes  underground ; 
As  in  that  shady  avenue, 

Where  lofty  elms  abound  ! 


PART  III. 

The  deed  is  done  :  the  tree  is  low 

That  stood  so  long  and  firm  ; 
The  woodman  and  his  axe  are  gone, 

His  toil  has  found  its  term  ; 
And  where  he  wrought  the  speckled  thrush 

Securely  hunts  the  worm. 

The  cony  from  the  sandy  bank 

Has  run  a  rapid  race, 
Through  thistle,  bent,  and  tangled  fem, 

To  seek  the  open  space  ; 
And  on  its  haunches  sits  erect 

To  clean  its  furry  face. 

The  dappled  fawn  is  close  at  hand, 

The  hind  is  browsing  near,  — 
And  on  the  larch's  lowest  bough 
The  ousel  whistles  clear ; 
Hut  checks  the  note 
Within  its  throat, 
As  choked  with  sudden  fear  ! 


94  THE    ELM    TREE. 

With  sudden  fear  her  wormy  quest 
The  thrush  abruptly  quits  — 

Through  thistle,  bent,  and  tangled  fern 
The  startled  cony  flits  ; 

And  on  the  larch's  lowest  bough 
No  more  the  ousel  sits. 

With  sudden  fear 
The  dappled  deer 
Effect  a  swift  escape  ; 
But  well  might  bolder  creatures  start 

And  fly,  or  stand  agape, 
With  rising  hair  and  curdled  blood, 
I'o  see  so  grim  a  Shape  ! 

The  very  sky  turns  pale  above  ; 

The  earth  grows  dark  beneath  ; 
The  human  terror  thrills  with  cold, 

And  draws  a  shorter  breath  — 
An  universal  panic  owns 

The  dread  approach  of  Death  ! 

With  silent  pace,  as  shadows  come, 
And  dark  as  shadows  be, 

The  grisly  phantom  takes  his  stand 
Beside  the  fallen  tree, 

And  scans  it  with  his  gloomy  eyes, 
And  laughs  with  horrid  glee  — 

A  dreary  laugh  and  desolate, 
Where  mirth  is  void  and  null, 

As  hollow  as  its  echo  sounds 
Within  the  hollow  skull  — 

"  Whoever  laid  this  tree  along, 
His  hatchet  was  not  didl ! 


THE    ELM    TREE.  95 

"  The  human  arm  and  human  tool 

Have  done  their  duty  well ! 
But  after  sound  of  ringing  axe 
Must  sound  the  ringing  knell ; 
When  elm  or  oak. 
Have  felt  the  stroke 
My  turn  it  is  to  fell. 

"  No  passive  unregarded  tree, 

A  senseless  thing  of  wood, 
Wherein  the  sluggish  sap  ascends 

To  swell  the  vernal  bud  — 
But  conscious,  moving,  breathing  trunks, 

That  throb  with  living  blood  ! 

"  No  forest  monarch  yearly  clad 

In  mantle  green  or  brown  ; 
That  unrecorded  lives,  and  falls 

By  hand  of  rustic  clown  — 
But  kings  who  don  the  purple  robe, 

And  wear  the  jewelled  crown. 

"  Ah !  little  recks  the  royal  mind, 

Within  his  banquet  hall, 
While  tapers  shine,  and  music  breathes. 

And  beauty  leads  the  ball,  — 
He  little  recks  the  oaken  plank 

Shall  be  his  palace  wall ! 

"  Ah,  little  dreams  the  haughty  p*e<i 

The  while  his  falcon  hies  — 
Or  on  the  blood-bedabbled  turf 

The  antlered  quarry  dies  — 
That  in  his  own  ancestral  park 

The  narrow  dwelling  lies. 


96  THE    ELM    TREE. 

"  But  haughty  peer  and  mighty  king 
One  doom  shall  overwhelm  ! 
The  oaken  cell 
Shall  lodge  him  well 
Whose  sceptre  ruled  a  realm  — 
While  he  who  never  knew  a  home 
Shall  find  it  in  the  elm ! 

"  The  tattered,  lean,  dejected  wretch, 
Who  begs  from  door  to  door, 

And  dies  within  the  cressy  ditch, 
Or  on  the  barren  moor, 

The  friendly  elm  shall  lodge  and  clothe 
That  houseless  man  and  poor ! 

"  Yea,  this  recumbent,  ragged  trunk, 
That  lies  so  long  and  prone, 

With  many  a  fallen  acorn-cup, 
And  mast  and  firry  cone  — 

This  rugged  trunk  shall  hold  its  share 
Of  mortal  flesh  and  bone ! 

"  A  miser  hoarding  heaps  of  gold, 
But  pale  with  ague-fears  — 

A  wife  lamenting  love's  decay, 
With  secret,  cruel  tears, 

Distilling  bitter,  bitter  drops 
From  sweets  of  former  years  — 

"  A  man  within  whose  gloomy  mind 

Offence  had  darkly  sunk, 
Who  out  of  fierce  Revenge's  cup 

Hath  madly,  darkly  drunk  — 
Grief,  Avarice,  and  Hate  shall  sleep 

Within  this  very  trunk  ! 


THE    ELM    TREE.  97 

"  This  massy  trunk  that  lies  along, 

And  many  more  must  fall  — 

For  the  very  knave 

Who  digs  the  grave, 

The  man  who  spreads  the  pall, 

And  he  who  tolls  the  funeral  bell, 

The  elm  shall  have  them  all ! 

"  The  tall  abounding  elm  that  grows 

In  hedge-rows  up  and  down  : 
In  field  and  forest,  copse  and  park, 

And  in  the  peopled  town, 
With  colonies  of  noisy  rooks 

That  nestle  on  its  crown. 

"  And  well  the  abounding  elm  may  grow 

In  field  and  hedge  so  rife, 
In  forest,  copse,  and  wooded  park, 

And  'mid  the  city's  strife, 
For  every  hour  that  passes  by 

Shall  end  a  human  life ! " 

The  phantom  ends :  the  shade  is  gone  ; 

The  sky  is  clear  and  bright ; 
On  turf,  and  moss,  and  fallen  tree, 

There  glows  a  ruddy  light ; 
And  bounding  through  the  golden  fern 

The  rabbit  comes  to  bite. 

The  thrush's  mate  beside  her  sits 

And  pipes  a  merry  lay ; 
The  dove  is  in  the  evergreens ; 

And  on  the  larch's  spray 
The  fly-bird  nutters  up  and  down, 

To  catch  its  tiny  prey. 
9 


98  THE    DIIEAM    OF    EUGENE    ARAM. 

The  gentle  hind  and  dappled  fawn 

Are  coming  up  the  glade  ; 
Each  harmless  furred  and  feathered  thing 

Is  glad,  and  not  afraid  — 
But  on  my  saddened  spirit  still 

The  shadow  leaves  a  shade. 

A  secret,  vague,  prophetic  gloom, 
As  though  by  certain  mark 

I  knew  the  fore-appointed  tree 
Within  whose  rugged  bark 

This  warm  and  li\-ing  frame  shall  find 
Its  narrow  house  and  dark. 

That  mystic  tree  which  breathed  to  me 

A  sad  and  solemn  sound, 
That  sometimes  murmured  overhead, 

And  sometimes  underground  ; 
Within  that  shady  avenue 

Where  lofty  elms  abound. 


THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM. 

'Twas  in  the  prime  of  summer  time, 

An  evening  calm  and  cool, 
And  four  and  twenty  happy  boys 

Came  bounding  out  of  school : 
There  were  some  that  ran,  and  some  that  leapt 

Like  troutlets  in  a  pool. 

Away  they  sped  with  gamesome  minds 
And  souls  untouched  by  sin ; 


THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM.  9<) 

To  a  level  mead  they  came,  and  there 

They  drave  the  wickets  in  : 
Pleasantly  shone  the  setting  sun 

Over  the  town  of  Lynn. 

Like  sportive  deer  they  coursed  about, 

And  shouted  as  they  ran,  — 
Turning  to  mirth  all  things  of  earth, 

As  only  boyhood  can  ; 
But  the  Usher  sat  remote  from  all, 

A  melancholy  man ! 

His  hat  was  off,  his  vest  apart, 

To  catch  heaven's  blessed  breeze  ; 

For  a  burning  thought  was  in  his  brow, 
And  his  bosom  ill  at  ease  : 

So  he  leaned  his  head  on  his  hands,  and  read 
The  book  between  his  knees  ! 

Leaf  after  leaf  he  turned  it  o'er, 

Nor  ever  glanced  aside, 
For  the  peace  of  his  soul  he  read  that  book 

In  the  golden  eventide  : 
Much  study  had  made  him  very  lean, 

And  pale,  and  leaden-eyed. 

At  last  he  shut  the  ponderous  tome, 

With  a  fast  and  fervent  grasp 
He  strained  the  dusky  covers  close, 

And  fixed  the  brazen  hasp  : 
"  O,  God  !  could  I  so  close  my  mind, 

And  clasp  it  with  a  clasp  !  " 

Then  leaning  on  his  feet  upright, 
Some  moody  turns  he  took  — 


100  THE    DREAM    OF    EUGIiNE    ARAM. 

Now  up  the  mead,  then  clown  the  mead, 
And  past  a  shady  nook,  — 

And,  lo  !  he  saw  a  little  boy 
That  pored  upon  a  book ! 

"  My  gentle  lad,  what  is't  you  read  — 

Romance  or  fairy  fable  ? 
Or  is  it  some  historic  page, 

Of  kings  and  crowns  unstable  ?  " 
The  young  boy  gave  an  upward  glance,  — ^ 

« It  is  '  The  Death  of  Abel.' " 

The  Usher  took  six  hasty  strides, 
As  smit  with  sudden  pain,  — 

Six  hasty  strides  beyond  the  place, 
Then  slowly  back  again  ; 

And  down  he  sat  beside  the  lad, 
And  talked  with  him  of  Cain ; 

And,  long  since  then,  of  bloody  men, 
Whose  deeds  tradition  saves  ; 

Of  lonely  folk  cut  off  unseen, 
And  hid  in  sudden  graves  ; 

Of  horrid  stabs  in  groves  forlorn, 
And  murders  done  in  caves  ; 

And  how  the  sprites  of  injured  men 
Shriek  upward  from  the  sod, — 

Ay,  how  the  ghostly  hand  will  point 
To  show  the  burial  clod  ; 

And  unknown  facts  of  guilty  acts 
Are  seen  in  dreams  from  God ! 

He  told  how  murderers  walk  the  earth. 
Beneath  the  curse  of  Cain,  — 


THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM.  \Q\ 

With  crimson  clouds  before  their  eyes, 

And  names  about  their  brain  ; 
For  blood  has  left  upon  their  souls 

Its  everlasting  stain  ! 

"  And  well,"  quoth  he,  «  I  know,  for  truth, 
Their  pangs  must  be  extreme,  — 

Woe,  woe,  unutterable  woe,  — 

Who  spill  life's  sacred  stream  ! 

For  why  ?     Methought,  last  night,  I  wrought 
A  murder,  in  a  dream  ! 

"  One  that  had  never  done  me  wrong  — 

A  feeble  man  and  old  ; 
I  led  him  to  a  lonely  field,  — 

The  moon  shone  clear  and  cold  : 
Now  here,  said  I,  this  man  shall  die, 

And  I  will  have  his  gold ! 

"  Two  sudden  blows  with  a  ragged  stick, 

And  one  with  a  heavy  stone, 
One  hurried  gash  with  a  hasty  knife,  — 

And  then  the  deed  was  done  : 
There  was  nothing  lying  at  my  foot 

But  lifeless  flesh  and  bone ! 

"  Nothing  but  lifeless  flesh  and  bone, 

That  could  not  do  me  ill ; 
And  yet  I  feared  him  all  the  more, 

For  lying  there  so  still  : 
There  was  a  manhood  in  his  look, 

That  murder  could  not  kill ! 

"  And,  lo,  the  universal  air 

Seemed  lit,  with  ghastly  flame;  — 
9* 


102         THE  DKEA.M  OF  EUGENE  ARAM. 

Ten  thousand  thousand  dreadful  eyes 
Were  looking  down  in  blame  : 

I  took  the  dead  man  by  his  hand, 
And  called  upon  his  name ! 

"  O,  God !  it  made  me  quake  to  see 
Such  sense  within  the  slain  ! 

But  when  I  touched  the  lifeless  clay, 
The  blood  gushed  out  amain  ! 

For  every  clot,  a  burning  spot 
Was  scorching  in  my  brain  ! 

"  My  head  was  like  an  ardent  coal, 

My  heart  as  solid  ice ; 
My  wretched,  wretched  soul,  I  knew, 

Was  at  the  devil's  price  : 
A  dozen  times  I  groaned  ;  the  dead 

Had  never  groaned  but  twice  ! 

"  And  now,  from  forth  the  frowning  sky, 
From  the  heaven's  topmost  height, 

I  heard  a  voice  — the  awful  voice 

Of  the  blood-avenging  sprite  :  — 

•  Thou  guilty  man !  take  up  thy  dead 
And  hide  it  from  my  sight ! ' 

"  I  took  the  dreary  body  up, 

And  cast  it  in  a  stream,  — 
A  sluggish  water,  black  as  ink, 

The  deptli  was  so  extreme  :  — 
My  gentle  Boy,  remember  this 

Is  nothing  but  a  dream  ! 

"  Down  went  the  corse  with  a  hollow  plunge, 
And  vanished  in  the  pool ; 


THE    DREAM    OF    EUGENE    ARAM.  103 

Anon  I  cleansed  my  bloody  hands, 

And  washed  my  forehead  cool, 
And  sat  among  the  urchins  young, 

That  evening,  in  the  school. 

"  O,  Heaven !  to  think  of  their  white  souls, 

And  mine  so  black  and  grim  ! 
I  could  not  share  in  childish  prayer, 

Nor  join  in  evening  hymn  : 
Like  a  devil  of  the  pit  I  seemed, 

'Mid  holy  cherubim  ! 

"  And  peace  went  with  them,  one  and  all, 

And  each  calm  pillow  spread  ; 
But  Guilt  was  my  grim  chamberlain 

That  lighted  me  to  bed  ; 
And  drew  my  midnight  curtains  round, 

With  fingers  bloody  red ! 

"  All  night  I  lay  in  agony, 

In  anguish  dark  and  deep ; 
My  fevered  eyes  I  dared  not  close, 

But  stared  aghast  at  Sleep  : 
For  Sin  had  rendered  unto  her 

The  keys  of  hell  to  keep ! 

"  All  night  I  lay  in  agony, 

From  weary  chime  to  chime, 
With  one  besetting  horrid  hint, 

That  racked  me  all  the  time ; 
A  mighty  yearning,  like  the  first 

Fierce  impulse  unto  crime! 

"One  stern  tyrannic  thought,  that  made 
All  other  thoughts  its  slave  ; 


104         THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM. 

Stronger  and  stronger  every  pulse 
Did  that  temptation  crave,  — 

Still  urging  me  to  go  and  see 
The  Dead  Man  in  his  grave  ! 

"  Heavily  I  rose  up,  as  soon 

As  light  was  in  the  sky,   , 
And  sought  the  black  accursed  pool 

With  a  wild  misgiving  eye  ; 
And  I  saw  the  Dead  in  tl5^  river  bed, 

For  the  faithless  stream  was  dry. 

"  Merrily  rose  the  lark,  and  shook 
The  dew-drop  from  its  wing  ; 

But  I  never  marked  its  morning  flight, 
I  never  heard  it  sing  : 

For  I  was  stooping  once  again 
Under  the  horrid  thing. 

"With  breathless  speed,  like  a  soul  in  chase, 

I  took  him  up  and  ran  ;  — 
There  was  no  time  to  dig  a  grave 

Before  the  day  began  : 
In  a  lonesome  wood,  with  heaps  of  leaves, 

I  hid  the  murdered  man  ! 

"  And  all  that  day  I  read  in  school, 

But  my  thought  was  other  where ; 

As  soon  as  the  mid-day  task  was  done, 
In  secret  I  was  there  : 

And  a  mighty  wind  had  swept  the  leaves, 
And  still  the  corse  was  bare  ! 

"  Then  down  I  cast  me  on  my  face, 
And  first  began  to  weep, 


THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM.  105 

For  I  knew  my  secret  then  was  one 

That  earth  refused  to  keep  : 
Or  land  or  sea,  though  he  should  be 

Ten  thousand  fathoms  deep. 

"  So  wills  the  fierce  avenging  Sprite, 

Till  blood  for  blood  atones  ! 
Ay,  though  he's  buried  in  a  cave, 

And  trodden  down  with  stones, 
And  years  have  rotted  off  his  flesh,  — 

The  world  shall  see  his  bones  ! 

"  O,  God  !  that  horrid,  horrid  dream 

Besets  me  now  awake  ! 
Again  —  again,  with  dizzy  brain, 

The  human  life  I  take  ; 
And  my  red  right  hand  grows  raging  hot, 

Like  Cranmer's  at  the  stake. 

"  And  still  no  peace  for  the  restless  clay 

"Will  wave  or  mould  allow ; 
The  horrid  tiling  pursues  my  soul, — 

It  stands  before  me  now !  " 
The  fearful  Boy  looked  up,  and  saw 

Huge  drops  upon  his  brow. 

That  very  night,  while  gentle  sleep 

The  urchin  eyelids  kissed, 
Two  stern-faced  men  set  out  from  Lynn, 

Through  the  cold  and  heavy  mist: 
And  Eugene  Aram  walked  between, 

With  gyves  upon  his  wrist. 


106  THE    HAUNTED    HOUSE. 


THE   HAUNTED   HOUSE. 

A    ROMANCE. 

"A  jolly  place,"  said  lie,  "  in  times  of  old, 
But  something  ails  it  now  ;  the  place  is  curst." 

Hart-Leap  Well,  bt  Wordsworth. 

PART   I. 

Some  dreams  we  have  are  nothing  else  but  dreams, 
Unnatural  and  full  of  contradictions  ; 
Yet  others  of  our  most  romantic  schemes 
Are  something  more  than  fictions. 

It  might  be  only  on  enchanted  gound ; 

It  might  be  merely  by  a  thought's  expansion ; 

But  in  the  spirit,  or  the  flesh,  I  found 

An  old  deserted  mansion. 

A  residence  for  woman,  child,  and  man, 
A  dwelling-place,  —  and  yet  no  habitation  ; 
A  house,  —  but  under  some  prodigious  ban 
Of  excommunication. 

Unhinged  the  iron  gates  half  open  hung, 
Jarred  by  the  gusty  gales  of  many  winters, 
That  from  its  crumbled  pedestal  had  flung 
One  marble  globe  in  splinters. 

No  dog  was  at  the  threshold,  great  or  small ; 
No  pigeon  on  the  roof — no  household  creature  — 
No  cat  demurely  dozing  on  the  wall  — 
Not  one  domestic  feature. 


THE    HAUNTED    HOUSE.  JQ7 

No  human  figure  stirred,  to  go  or  come  ; 
No  face  looked  forth  from  shut  or  open  casement  : 
No  chimney  smoked  —  there  was  no  sign  of  home 
From  parapet  to  basement. 

With  shattered  panes  the  grassy  court  was  starred; 
The  time-worn  coping-stone  had  tumbled  after  ; 
And  through  the  ragged  roof  the  sky  shone,  ba'rred 
With  naked  beam  and  rafter. 

O'er  all  there  hung  a  shadow  and  a  fear ; 
A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted  ! 

The  flower  grew  wild  and  rankly  as  the  weed, 
Koses  with  thistles  struggled  for  espial, 
And  vagrant  plants  of  parasitic  breed 
Had  overgrown  the  dial. 

But,  gay  or  gloomy,  steadfast  or  infirm, 
No  heart  was  there  to  heed  the  horn's  duration  ; 
All  times  and  tides  were  lost  in  one  long  term 
Of  stagnant  desolation. 

The  wren  had  built  within  the  porch,  she  found 
Its  quiet  loneliness  so  sure  and  thorough ; 
And  on  the  lawn,  — within  its  turfy  mound,  ~ 
The  rabbit  made  his  burrow. 

The  rabbit  wild  and  gray,  that  flitted  through 

The  shrubby  dumps,  and  frisked,  and  sat,  and  vanished, 

But  leisurely  and  bold,  as  if  he  knew 

His  enemy  was  banished. 


108  THE    HAUNTED    HOUSE. 

The  wary  crow,  —  the  pheasant  from  the  woods, — 
Lulled  by  the  still  and  everlasting  sameness, 
Close  to  the  mansion,  like  domestic  broods, 
Fed  with  a  "  shocking  tameness." 

The  coot  was  swimming  in  the  reedy  pond, 
Beside  the  water-hen,  so  soon  affrighted ; 
And  in  the  weedy  moat  the  heron,  fond 
Of  solitude,  alighted. 

The  moping  heron,  motionless  and  stiff, 
That  on  a  stone,  as  silently  and  stilly, 
Stood,  an  apparent  sentinel,  as  if 
To  guard  the  water  lily. 

No  sound  was  heard,  except,  from  far  away, 
The  ringing  of  the  whitwall's  shrilly  laughter, 
Or,  now  and  then,  the  chatter  of  the  jay, 
That  Echo  murmured  after. 

But  Echo  never  mocked  the  human  tongue ; 
Some  weighty  crime,  that  Heaven  could  not  pardon, 
A  secret  curse  on  that  old  building  hung, 
And  its  deserted  garden. 

The  beds  were  all  untouched  by  hand  or  tool ; 
No  footstep  marked  the  damp  and  mossv  gravel, 
Each  walk  as  green  as  is  the  mantled  pool 
For  want  of  human  travel. 

The  vine  unpruned,  and  the  neglected  peach, 
Drooped  from  the  wall  with  which  they  used  to  grapple; 
And  on  the  cankered  tree,  in  easy  reach, 
Hotted  '.he  golden  apple. 


THE    HAUNTED    HOUSE.  109 

But  awfully  the  truant  shunned  the  ground, 
The  vagrant  kept  aloof,  and  daring  poacher : 
In  spite  of  gaps  that  through  the  fences  round 
Invited  the  encroacher. 

For  over  all  there  hung  a  cloud  of  fear ; 
A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted  ! 

The  pear  and  quince  lay  squandered  on  the  grass ; 
The  mould  was  purple  with  unheeded  showers 
Of  bloomy  plums  —  a  wilderness  it  was 
Of  fruits,  and  weeds,  and  flowers ! 

The  marigold  amidst  the  nettles  blew, 
The  gourd  embraced  the  rose-bush  in  its  ramble, 
The  thistle  and  the  stock  together  grew, 
The  hollyhock  and  bramble. 

The  bear-bine  with  the  lilac  interlaced  ; 

The  sturdy  burdock  choked  its  slender  neighbor, 

The  spicy  pink.     All  tokens  were  effaced 

Of  human  care  and  labor. 

The  very  yew  formality  had  trained 

To  such  a  rigid  pyramidal  stature, 

For  want  of  trimming  had  almost  regained 

The  raggedness  of  nature. 

The  fountain  was  a-dry  —  neglect  and  time 
Had  marred  the  work  of  artisan  and  mason, 
And  efts  and  croaking  frogs,  begot  of  slime, 
Sprawled  in  the  ruined  basin. 
10 


210  THE    HAUNTED    HOUSE. 

The  statue,  fallen  from  its  marble  base, 
Amidst  the  refuse  leaves,  and  herbage  rotten. 
Lay  like  the  idol  of  some  bygone  race, 
Its  name  and  rites  forgotten. 

On  every  side  the  aspect  was  the  same, 
All  ruined,  desolite,  forlorn  and  savage  : 
No  hand  or  foot  within  the  precinct  came 
To  rectify  or  ravage. 

For  over  all  there  hung  a  cloud  of  fear ; 
A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  hi  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted  ! 


PART  II. 

O,  very  gloomy  is  the  house  of  woe, 
Where  tears  are  falling  while  the  bell  is  knelling-, 
With  all  the  dark  solemnities  which  show 
That  Death  is  in  the  dwelling ! 

O,  very,  very  dreary  is  the  room 
Where  love,  domestic  love,  no  longer  nestles, 
But,  smitten  by  the  common  stroke  of  doom, 
The  corpse  lies  on  the  trestles  ! 

But  house  of  woe,  and  hearse,  and  sable  pall, 
The  narrow  home  of  the  departed  mortal, 
Ne'er  looked  so  gloomy  as  that  ghostly  hall, 
With  its  deserted  portal ! 


THE    HAUN'TED    HOUSE.  JJJ 

The  centipede  along  the  threshold  crept, 
The  cobweb  hung  across  in  mazy  tangle, 
And  in  its  winding-sheet  the  maggot  slept, 
At  every  nook  and  angle. 

The  keyhole  lodged  the  earwig  and  her  brood  ; 
The  emmets  of  the  steps  had  old  possession, 
And  marched  in  search  of  their  diurnal  food 
In  undisturbed  procession. 

As  undisturbed  as  the  prehensile  cell 
Of  moth  or  maggot,  or  the  spider's  tissue ; 
For  never  foot  upon  that  threshold  fell, 
To  enter  or  to  issue. 

O'er  all  there  hung  the  shadow  of  a  fear ; 
A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted ! 

Howbeit,  the  door  I  pushed  —  or  so  I  dreamed  — 
Which  slowly,  slowly  gaped,  —  the  hinges  creaking 
With  such  a  rusty  eloquence,  it  seemed 
That  Time  himself  was  speaking. 

But  Time  was  dumb  within  that  mansion  old, 
Or  left  his  tale  to  the  heraldic  banners 
That  hung  from  the  corroded  walls,  and  told 
Of  former  men  and  manners. 

Those  tattered  flags,  that  with  the  opened  door 
Seemed  the  old  wave  of  battle  to  remember, 
While  fallen  fragments  danced  upon  the  floor 
Like  dead  leaves  in  December. 


112  THE    HAUNTED    HOUSE. 

The  startled  bats  flew  out  —  bird  after  bird  — 
The  screech-owl  overhead  began  to  flutter, 
And  seemed  to  mock  the  cry  that  she  had  heard 
Some  dying  victim  utter  ! 

A  shriek  that  echoed  from  the  joisted  roof, 
And  up  the  stair,  and  further  still  and  further, 
Till  in  some  ringing  chamber  far  aloof 
It  ceased  its  tale  of  murther  ! 

Meanwhile  the  rusty  armor  rattled  round, 
The  banner  shuddered,  and  the  ragged  streamer ; 
All  things  the  horrid  tenor  of  the  sound 
Acknowledged  with  a  tremor. 

The  antlers,  where  the  helmet  hung  and  belt, 
Stirred  as  the  tempest  stirs  the  forest  blanches, 
Or  as  the  stag  had  trembled  when  he  felt 
The  bloodhound  at  his  haunches. 

The  window  jingled  in  its  crumbled  frame, 
And  through  its  many  gaps  of  destitution 
Dolorous  moans  and  hollow  sighings  came, 
Like  those  of  dissolution. 

The  wood-louse  dropped,  and  rolled  into  a  ball, 
Touched  by  some  impulse  occult  or  mechanic ; 
And  nameless  beetles  ran  along  the  wall 
In  universal  panic. 

The  subtle  spider,  that  from  overhead 
Hung  like  a  spy  on  human  guilt  and  error, 
Suddenly  turned,  and  up  its  slender  thread 
Ran  with  a  nimble  terror. 


THE    HAUNTED    HOUSE.  H3 

The  very  stains  and  fractures  on  the  wall, 
Assuming  features  solemn  and  terrific, 
Hinted  some  tragedy  of  that  old  hall, 
Locked  up  in  hieroglyphic. 

Some  tale  that  might,  perchance,  have  solved  the  doubt, 
Wherefore  amongst  those  flags  so  dull  and  livid 
The  banner  of  the  Bloody  Hand  shone  out, 
So  ominously  vivid. 

Some  key  to  that  inscrutable  appeal, 
Which  made  the  very  frame  of  Nature  quiver, 
And  every  thrilling  nerve  and  fibre  feel 
So  ague-like  a  shiver. 

For  over  all  there  hung  a  cloud  of  fear ; 
A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted ! 

If  but  a  rat  had  fingered  in  the  house, 
To  lure  the  thought  into  a  social  channel ! 
But  not  a  rat  remained,  or  tiny  mouse, 
To  squeak  behind  the  panel. 

Huge  drops  rolled  down  the  walls,  as  if  they  wept  ; 
And  where  the  cricket  used  to  chirp  so  shrilly 
The  toad  was  squatting,  and  the  lizard  crept 
On  that  damp  hearth  and  chilly. 

For  years  no  cheerful  blaze  had  sparkled  there, 
Or  glanced  on  coat  of  buff  or  knightly  metal ; 
The  slug  was  crawling  on  the  vacant  chair, — 
The  snail  upon  the  settle. 
10* 


114  THE    HAUNTED    HOUSE. 

The  floor  was  redolent  of  mould  and  must, 
The  fungus  in  the  rotten  seams  had  quickened ; 
While  on  the  oaken  table  coats  of  dust 
Perennially  had  thickened. 

No  mark  of  leathern  jack  or  metal  can, 
No  cup,  no  horn,  no  hospitable  token,  — 
All  social  ties  between  that  board  and  man 
Had  long  ago  been  broken. 

There  was  so  foul  a  rumor  in  the  air, 
The  shadow  of  a  presence  so  atrocious, 
No  human  creature  could  have  feasted  there, 
Even  the  most  ferocious. 

For  over  all  there  hung  a  cloud  of  fear ; 
A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted ! 


PART  III. 

Tis  hard  for  human  actions  to  account, 
Whether  from  reason  or  from  impulse  only  — 
But  some  internal  prompting  bade  me  mount 
The  gloomy  stairs  and  lonely. 

Those  gloomy  stairs,  so  dark,  and  damp,  and  cold, 
With  odors  as  from  bones  and  relics  carnal, 
Deprived  of  rite  and  consecrated  mould, 
The  chapel  vault  or  charnel. 


THE    HAUNTED    HOUSE.  U5 

Those  dreary  stairs,  where  with  the  sounding  stress 
Of  every  step  so  many  echoes  blended, 
The  mind,  with  dark  misgivings,  feared  to  guess 
How  many  feet  ascended. 

The  tempest  with  its  spoils  had  drifted  in, 
Till  each  unwholesome  stone  was  darkly  spotted, 
As  thickly  as  the  leopard's  dappled  skin, 
With  leaves  that  rankly  rotted. 

The  air  was  thick,  and  in  the  upper  gloom 

The  bat  —  or  something  in  its  shape  —  was  winging ; 

And  on  the  wall,  as  chilly  as  a  tomb, 

The  death's-head  moth  was  clinging. 

That  mystic  moth,  which,  with  a  sense  profound 
Of  all  unholy  presence,  augurs  truly ; 
And  with  a  grim  significance  flits  round 
The  taper  burning  bluely. 

Such  omens  in  the  place  there  seemed  to  be, 
At  every  crooked  turn,  or  on  the  landing, 
The  straining  eyeball  was  prepared  to  see 
Some  apparition  standing. 

For  over  all  there  hung  a  cloud  of  fear ; 
A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted  ! 

Yet  no  portentous  shape  the  sight  amazed  ; 
Each  object  plain,  and  tangible,  and  valid  ; 
lint  'rom  their  tarnished  frames  dark  figures  gazed, 
Axj'J  (aces  spectre-pallid. 


116  THE    HAUNTED    HOUSE. 

Not  merely  with  the  mimic  life  that  lies 

Within  the  compass  of  art's  simulation  ; 

Their  souls  were  looking  through  their  painted  eye» 

With  awful  speculation. 

On  every  lip  a  speechless  horror  dwelt ; 
On  every  brow  the  burthen  of  affliction ; 
The  old  ancestral  spirits  knew  and  felt 
The  house's  malediction. 

kuch  earnest  woe  their  features  overcast, 

They  might  have  stirred,  or  sighed,  or  wept,  or  spoken; 

But,  save  the  hollow  moaning  of  the  blast, 

The  stillness  was  unbroken. 

No  other  sound  or  stir  of  life  was  there, 
Except  my  steps  in  solitary  clamber, 
From  flight  to  flight,  from  humid  stair  to  stair, 
From  chamber  into  chamber. 

Deserted  rooms  of  luxury  and  state, 
That  old  magnificence  had  richly  furnished 
With  pictures,  cabinets  of  ancient  date, 
And  carvings  gilt  and  burnished. 

Rich  hangings,  storied  by  the  needle's  art, 
With  Scripture  history  or  classic  fable  ; 
But  all  had  faded,  save  one  ragged  part, 
Where  Cain  was  slaying  Abel. 

The  silent  waste  of  mildew  and  the  moth 
Had  marred  the  tissue  with  a  partial  ravage  ; 
But  undecaying  frowned  upon  the  cloth 
Each  feature  stern  and  savage. 


THE    HAUNTED    HOUSE.  117 

The  sky  was  pale  ;  the  cloud  a  thing  of  doubt ; 
Some  hues  were  fresh,  and  some  decayed  and  duller ; 
But  still  the  Bloody  Hand  shone  strangely  out 
With  vehemence  of  color  ! 

The  Bloody  Hand  that  with  a  lurid  stain 
Shone  on  the  dusty  floor,  a  dismal  token, 
Projected  from  the  casement's  painted  pane, 
Where  all  beside  was  broken. 

The  Bloody  Hand  significant  of  crime, 
That,  glaring  on  the  old  heraldic  banner, 
Had  kept  its  crimson  unimpaired  by  time, 
In  such  a  wondrous  manner ! 

O'er  all  there  hung  the  shadow  of  a  fear ; 
A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted  ! 

The  death-watch  ticked  behind  the  panelled  oak, 
Inexplicable  tremors  shook  the  arras, 
And  echoes  strange  and  mystical  awoke, 
The  fancy  to  embarrass. 

Prophetic  hints  that  filled  the  soul  with  dread, 
But  through  one  gloomy  entrance  pointing  mostly, 
The  while  some  secret  inspiration  said, 
That  chamber  is  the  ghostly  ! 

Across  the  door  no  gossamer  festoon 

Swung  pendulous  —  no  web  —  no  dusty  fringes, 

No  silky  chrysalis  or  white  cocoon 

About  its  nooks  and  hinges. 


118  THE    HAUNTED    HOUSE. 

The  spider  shunned  the  interdicted  room, 
The  moth,  the  beetle,  and  the  fly  were  banished, 
And  where  the  sunbeam  fell  athwart  the  gloom 
The  very  midge  had  vanished. 

One  lonely  raj-  that  glanced  upon  a  bed, 
As  if  with  awful  aim  direct  and  certain, 
To  show  the  Bloody  Hand  in  burning  red 
Embroidered  on  the  curtain. 

And  yet  no  gory  stain  was  on  the  quilt  — 
The  pillow  in  its  place  had  slowly  rotted ; 
The  floor  alone  retained  the  trace  of  guilt, 
Those  boards  obscurely  spotted. 

Obscurely  spotted  to  the  door,  and  thence 
With  mazy  doubles  to  the  grated  casement  — 
O,  what  a  tale  they  told  of  fear  intense, 
Of  horror  and  amazement ! 

What  human  creature  in  the  dead  of  night 
Had  coursed  like  hunted  hare  that  cruel  distance  ? 
Had  sought  the  door,  the  window,  in  his  flight, 
Striving  for  dear  existence  ? 

What  shrieking  spirit  in  that  bloody  room 
Its  mortal  frame  had  violently  quitted  ?  — 
Across  the  sunbeam,  with  a  sudden  gloom, 
A  ghostly  shadow  flitted. 

Across  the  sunbeam,  and  along  the  wall, 
But  painted  on  the  air  so  very  dimly, 
It  hardly  veiled  the  tapestry  at  all, 
Or  portrait  frowning  grimly. 


THE    BRIDGE    OF    SIGHS.  HO 

O'er  all  there  hung  the  shadow  of  a  fear ; 
A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 
And  said,  as  plain  as  'whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted ! 


THE    BRIDGE   OF   SIGHS. 

"  Drowned !   drowned ! "  —  Hamlet. 

One  more  unfortunate, 
Weary  of  breath, 
Rashly  importunate, 
Gone  to  her  death  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care  ; 
Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair  ! 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements  ; 
Whilst  the  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing; 
Take  her  up  instantly, 
Loving,  not  loathing.  — 

Touch  her  not  scornfully  ; 
Think  of  her  mournfully, 
Gently  and  humanly  ; 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her, 
All  that  remains  of  her 
Now  is  pure  womanly. 


120  THE    BIUDGE    OF    SIGHS. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny 
Hash  and  undutiful : 
Past  all  dishonor, 
Death  has  left  on  her 
Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers, 
One  of  Eve's  family  — 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers 
Oozing  so  clammily. 

Loop  up  her  tresses 
Escaped  from  the  comb, 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses ; 
Whilst  wonderment  guesse8 
Where  was  her  home  ? 

Who  was  her  father  ? 
Who  was  her  mother  ? 
Had  she  a  sister  ? 
Had  she  a  brother  ? 
Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one 
Yet,  than  all  other  ? 

Alas  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 
Under  the  sun ! 
O,  it  was  pitiful ! 
Near  a  whole  city  mil, 
Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,  motherly 


THE    BRIDGE    OF    SIGHS.  J21 

Feelings  had  changed : 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Thrown  from  its  eminence  ; 
Even  God's  providence 
Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river, 
With  many  a  light 
From  window  and  casement, 
From  garret  to  basement, 
She  stood  with  amazement, 
Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 
Made  her  tremble  and  shiver ; 
But  not  the  dark  arch, 
Or  the  black  flowing  river : 
Mad  from  life's  history, 
Glad  to  death's  mystery 
Swift  to  be  hurled  — 
Any  where,  any  where 
Out  of  the  world  ! 

In  she  plunged  boldly, 
No  matter  how  coldly 
The  rough  river  ran,  — 
Over  the  brink  of  it, 
Picture  it  — think  of  it, 
Dissolute  man ! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it, 
Then,  if  you  can ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care  ; 
11 


122  THE    IIKIDGE    OF   SIGHS. 

Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair ! 

Ere  her  limhs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 
Decently,  —  kindly,  — 
Smooth,  and  compose  them  ; 
And  her  eyes,  close  them, 
Staring  so  blindly ! 

Dreadfully  staring 
Through  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 
Fixed  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurred  by  contumely, 
Cold  inhumanity, 
Burning  insanity, 
Into  her  rest.  — 
Cross  her  hands  humbly, 
As  if  praying  dumbly, 
Over  her  breast ! 

Owning  her  weakness, 
Her  evil  behavior, 
And  leaving,  with  meekness, 
Her  sins  to  her  Saviour! 


THE    SONG    OF    THE    SHIRT.  123 


THE   SONG   OF   THE   SHIRT. 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread  — 
Stitch!  stitch!  stitch! 
In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 

And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  ]Ditch 
She  sang  the  "  Song  of  the  Shirt ! " 

"  Work  !  work  !  work  ! 
While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof! 

And  work  —  work  —  work, 
Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof! 
It's  O  !  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save, 

If  this  is  Christian  work  ! 

"  Work  —  work  —  work 
Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim ! 

Work  —  work  —  work 
Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim  ! 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep, 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream ! 

"  O,  men,  with  sisters  dear ! 

O,  men,  with  mothers  and  wives ! 
It  is  not  linen  you're  wearing  out, 

But  human  creatures'  lives  ! 


124  THE    SONG    OF    THE    SHIRT. 

Stitch  —  stitch  —  stitch, 
In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 
A  shroud  as  well  as  a  shirt. 

"  But  why  do  I  talk  of  death  ? 

That  phantom  of  grisly  bone, 
I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape, 

It  seems  so  like  my  own  — 
It  seems  so  like  my  own, 

Because  of  the  fasts  I  keep  ; 
O,  God !  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap  ! 

"  Work  —  work  —  work  ! 

My  labor  never  flags  ; 
And  what  are  its  wages  ?     A  bed  of  straw, 

A  crust  of  bread  —  and  rags. 
That  shattered  roof —  and  this  naked  floor  — 

A  table  —  a  broken  chair  — 
And  a  wall  so  blank,  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometimes  falling  there  ! 

"  Work  —  work  —  work ! 

From  weary  chime  to  chime, 
Work  —  work  —  work, 

As  prisoners  work  for  crime ! 
Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 
Till  the  heart  is  sick,  and  the  brain  benumbed, 

As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 


"  Work  —  work  —  work, 


In  the  dull  December  light, 


■  w 


THE    SONG    OF    THE    SHIRT.  125 

And  work  —  work  —  work, 
When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright  — 
While  underneath  the  eaves 

The  brooding  swallows  cling, 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs, 

And  twit  me  with  the  spring. 

"  O  !  but  to  breathe  the  breath 
Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet  — 

With  the  sky  above  my  head, 
And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet, 
For  only  one  short  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel, 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want, 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal ! 

"  O  !  but  for  one  short  hour  ! 

A  respite  however  brief! 
No  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope, 

But  only  time  for  grief ! 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart, 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  di-op 

Hinders  needle  and  thread  ! " 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread  — 
Stitch!  stitch  !  stitch! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dir,t, 
And  still  with  a  vr.ice  of  dolorous  pitch,  — 
Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  rich! — ■ 

She  sang  this  "  Song  of  the  Sliirt ! " 
11  * 


T 


126  THE    LADY'S    DREAM. 


THE   LADY'S  DREAM. 

The  lady  lay  in  her  bed, 

Her  couch  so  warm  and  soft, 
But  her  sleep  was  restless  and  broken  still ; 

For,  turning  often  and  oft 
From  side  to  side,  she  muttered  and  moaned, 

And  tossed  her  arms  aloft. 

At  last  she  startled  up, 

And  gazed  on  the  vacant  air, 
With  a  look  of  awe,  as  if  she  saw 

Some  dreadful  phantom  there  — 
And  then  in  the  pillow  she  buried  her  face 

From  visions  ill  to  bear. 

The  very  curtain  shook, 

Her  terror  was  so  extreme  ; 
And  the  light  that  fell  on  the  broidered  quilt 

Kept  a  tremulous  gleam  ; 
And  her  voice  was  hollow,  and  shook  as  she  cried: 

"  O,  me  !  that  awful  dream  ! 

"  That  weary,  weary  walk, 

In  the  church-yard's  dismal  ground  ! 

And  those  horrible  things,  with  shady  wings, 
That  came  and  flitted  round,  — 

Death,  death,  and  nothing  but  death, 
In  every  sight  and  sound ! 

"  And,  O !  those  maidens  young, 
Who  wrought  in  that  dreary  room, 


THE    LADY  S    DREAM.  J  27 

With  figures  drooping  and  spectres  thin, 

And  cheeks  without  a  bloom  ;  — 
And  the  voice  that  cried,  '  For  the  pomp  of  pride, 

We  haste  to  an  early  tomb ! 

" '  For  the  pomp  and  pleasure  of  pride, 

We  toil  like  Afrie  slaves, 
And  only  to  earn  a  home  at  last, 

Where  yonder  cypress  waves  ; ' 
And  then  they  pointed  —  I  never  saw 

A  ground  so  full  of  graves  ! 

"  And  still  the  coffins  came, 

With  their  sorrowful  trains  and  slow ; 

Coffin  after  coffin  still, 

A  sad  and  sickening  show  ; 

From  grief  exempt,  I  never  had  dreamt 
Of  such  a  world  of  woe ! 

"  Of  the  hearts  that  daily  break, 

Of  the  tears  that  hourly  fall, 
Of  the  many,  many  troubles  of  life, 

That  grieve  this  earthly  ball  — 
Disease,  and  Hunger,  and  Fain,  and  Want, 

But  now  I  dreamt  of  them  all ! 

"  For  the  blind  and  the  cripple  were  there, 

And  the  babe  that  pined  for  bread, 
And  the  houseless  man,  and  the  widow  poor 

Who  begged  —  to  bury  the  dead  ; 
The  naked,  alas  !  that  I  might  have  clad, 

The  famished  I  might  have  fed ! 

"  The  sorrow  I  might  have  soothed, 
And  the  unregarded  tears ; 


J  28  THE    LADY'S    DREAM. 

For  many  a  thronging  shape  was  ther*, 
From  long-forgotten  years,  — 

Ay,  even  the  poor  rejected  Moor, 
Who  raised  my  childish  fears  ! 

"  Each  pleading  look,  that  long  ago 
I  scanned  with  a  heedless  eye, 

Each  face  was  gazing  as  plainly  there 
As  when  I  passed  it  by  : 

Woe,  woe  for  me  if  the  past  should  be 
Thus  present  when  I  die ! 

"  No  need  of  sulphureous  lake, 

No  need  of  fiery  coal, 
But  only  that  crowd  of  human  kind 

Who  wanted  pity  and  dole  — 
In  everlasting  retrospect  — 

Will  wring  my  sinful  soul ! 

"  Alas !  I  have  walked  through  life 

Too  heedless  where  I  trod ; 
Nay,  helping  to  trample  my  fellow-worm, 

And  fill  the  burial  sod  — 
Forgetting  that  even  the  sparrow  falls 

Not  unmarked  of  God ! 

"  I  drank  the  richest  draughts  ; 

And  ate  whatever  is  good  — 
Fish,  and  flesh,  and  fowl,  and  fruit, 

Supplied  my  hungry  mood  ; 
But  I  never  remembered  the  wretched  ones 

That  starve  for  want  of  food  ! 

"  I  dressed  as  the  noble  dress, 
In  cloth  of  silver  and  gold, 


THE    WORKHOUSE    CLOCK.  J  29 

With  silk,  and  satin,  and  costly  furs, 

In  many  an  ample  fold  ; 
But  I  never  remembered  the  naked  limbs 

That  froze  with  winter's  cold. 

"  The  wounds  I  might  have  healed ! 

The  human  sorrow  and  smart! 
And  yet  it  never  was  in  my  soul 

To  play  so  ill  a  part ; 
But  evil  is  wrought  by  want  of  thought, 

As  well  as  want  of  heart !  " 

She  clasped  ber  fervent  hands, 

And  the  tears  began  to  stream  ; 
Large,  and  bitter,  and  fast  they  fell, 

Remorse  was  so  extreme  ; 
And  yet,  O,  yet,  that  many  a  dame 

Would  dream  the  Lady's  Dream ! 


THE  WORKHOUSE  CLOCK. 

AN    ALLEGORY. 

There's  a  murmur  in  the  air, 
A  noise  in  every  street  — 
The  murmur  of  many  tongues, 
The  noise  of  numerous  feet  — 
While  round  the  workhouse  door 
The  laboring  classes  Hock, 
For  why  ?  —  the  overseer  of  the  poor 
Is  settijig  the  workhouse  clock. 


130  THE    WORKHOUSE    CLOCK. 

Who  does  not  hear  the  tramp 
Of  thousands  speeding  along 
Of  either  sex  and  various  stamp, 
Sickly,  crippled,  or  strong, 
Walking,  limping,  creeping 
From  court,  and  alley,  and  lane, 
But  all  in  one  direction  sweeping, 
Like  rivers  that  seek  the  main? 
Who  does  not  see  them  sally 
From  mill,  and  garret,  and  room, 
In  lane,  and  court,  and  alley, 
From  homes  in  poverty's  lowest  valley, 
Furnished  with  shuttle  and  loom  — 
Poor  slaves  of  Civilization's  galley  — 
And  in  the  road  and  footways  rally, 
As  if  for  the  day  of  doom  ? 

Some,  of  hardly  human  form, 
Stunted,  crooked,  and  crippled  hy  toil ; 
Dingy  with  smoke  and  dust  and  oil, 
And  smirched  besides  with  vicious  soil, 
Clustering,  mustering,  all  in  a  swarm. 
Father,  mother,  and  careful  child, 
Looking  as  if  it  had  never  smiled  — 
The  seamstress,  lean,  and  weary,  and  wan, 
With  only  the  ghosts  of  garments  ou  — 
The  weaver,  her  sallow  neighbor, 
The  grim  and  sooty  artisan  ; 
Every  soul  —  child,  woman,  or  man, 
Who  lives  —  or  dies  —  by  labor. 

Stirred  by  an  overwhelming  zeal, 
And  social  impulse,  a  terrible  throng ! 
Leaving  shuttle,  and  needle,  and  wheel, 


-  > 


THE    WOKKHOUSE    CLOCK. 

Furnace,  and  grindstone,  spindle,  and  reel, 

Thread,  and  yarn,  and  iron,  and  steel  — 

Yea,  rest  and  the  yet  untasted  meal  — 

Gushing,  rushing,  crushing  along, 

A  very  torrent  of  Man  ! 

Urged  by  the  sighs  of  sorrow  and  wrong, 

Grown  at  last  to  a  hurricane  strong, 

Stop  its  course  who  can  ! 

Stop  who  can  its  onward  course 

And  irresistible  moral  force  ; 

O  !  vain  and  idle  dream  ! 

For  surely  as  men  are  all  akin, 

Whether  of  fair  or  sable  skin, 

According  to  Nature's  scheme, 

That  human  movement  contains  within 

A  blood-power  stronger  than  steam. 

Onward,  onward,  with  hasty  feet, 
They  swarm  —  and  westward  still  — 
Masses  born  to  drink  and  eat, 
But  starving  amidst  Whitcchapel's  meat, 
And  famishing  down  Cornhill ! 
Through  the  Poultry  —  but  still  unfed  — 
Christian  charity,  hang  your  head  ! 
Hungry  —  passing  the  Street  of  Bread ; 
Thirsty  —  the  Street  of  Milk  ; 
Bagged  —  beside  the  Ludgate  mart, 
So  gorgeous,  through  mechanic  art, 
With  cotton,  and  wool,  and  silk  ! 

At  last,  before  that  door 
That  bears  so  many  a  knock 
Ere  ever  it  opens  to  sick  or  poor, 
Like  sheep  they  huddle  and  flock  — 


131 


132      *  THE    LAY    OF   THE    LABORER. 

And  would  that  all  the  good  and  wise 
Could  see  the  million  of  hollow  eyes, 
With  a  gleam  derived  from  hope  and  the  skies, 
Upturned  to  the  workhouse  clock ! 

O !  that  the  parish  powers, 
Who  regulate  labor's  hours, 
The  daily  amount  of  human  trial, 
Weariness,  pain,  and  self-denial, 
Would  turn  from  the  artificial  dial 
That  striketh  ten  or  eleven, 
And  go,  for  once,  by  that  older  one 
That  stands  in  the  light  of  Nature's  sun, 
And  takes  its  time  from  Heaven  ! 


THE  LAY   OF  THE  LABORER. 

A  spade  !  a  rake  !  a  hoe  ! 

A  pickaxe,  or  a  bill ! 
A  hook  to  reap,  or  a  scythe  to  mow, 

A  flail,  or  what  ye  will  — 
And  here's  a  ready  hand 

To  ply  the  needful  tool, 
And  skilled  enough,  by  lessons  rough, 

In  Labor's  rugged  school. 

To  hedge,  or  dig  the  ditch, 

To  lop  or  fell  the  tree, 
To  lay  the  swarth  on  the  sultry  field, 

Or  plough  the  stubborn  lea  j 


THE    LAY    OF   THE    LABORER.  133 

The  harvest  stack  to  bind, 

The  wheaten  rick  to  thatch, 
And  never  fear  in  my  pouch  to  find 

The  tinder  or  the  match. 

To  a  flaming  barn  or  farm 

My  fancies  never  roam  ; 
The  fire  I  yearn  to  kindle  and  burn 

Is  on  the  hearth  of  home  ; 
Where  children  huddle  and  crouch 

Through  dark  long  winter  days, 
Where  starving  children  huddle  and  crouch, 

To  see  the  cheerful  rays, 
A-glowing  on  the  haggard  cheek, 

And  not  in  the  haggard's  blaze ! 

To  Him  who  sends  a  drought 

To  parch  the  fields  forlorn, 
The  rain  to  flood  the  meadows  with  mud, 

The  blight  to  blast  the  corn, 
To  Him  I  leave  to  guide 

The  bolt  in  its  crooked  path, 
To  strike  the  miser's  rick,  and  show 

The  skies  blood-red  with  wrath. 

A  spade  !  a  rake  !  a  hoe  ! 

A  pickaxe,  or  a  bill ! 
A  hook  to  reap,  or  a  scythe  to  mow, 

A  flail,  or  what  ye  will  — 
The  corn  to  thrash,  or  the  hedge  to  plash, 

The  market-team  to  drive, 
Or  mend  the  fence  by  the  cover  side, 

And  leave  the  game  alive. 
12 


134  THE    LAY    OP    THE    LABORER. 

Ay,  only  give  me  work, 

And  then  you  need  not  fear 
That  I  shall  snare  his  worship's  hare, 

Or  kill  his  grace's  deer  ; 
Break  into  his  lordship's  house, 

To  steal  the  plate  so  rich  ; 
Or  leave  the  yeoman  that  had  a  purse 

To  welter  in  the  ditch. 

Wherever  Nature  needs, 

Wherever  Labor  calls, 
No  job  I'll  shirk  of  the  hardest  work, 

To  shun  the  workhouse  walls ; 
Where  savage  laws  begrudge 

The  pauper  babe  its  breath, 
And  doom  a  wife  to  a  widow's  life, 

Before  her  partner's  death. 

My  only  claim  is  this, 

With  labor  stiff  and  stark 
By  lawful  turn  my  living  to  earn, 

Between  the  light  and  dark ; 
My  daily  bread  and  nightly  bed, 

My  bacon,  and  drop  of  beer  — 
But  all  from  the  hand  that  holds  the  land, 

And  none  from  the  overseer  ! 

No  parish  money,  or  loaf, 

No  pauper  badges  for  me,  — 
A  son  of  the  soil  by  right  of  toil 

Entitled  to  my  fee. 
No  alms  1  ask,  give  me  my  task ; 

Here  are  the  arm,  the  leg, 
The  strength,  the  sinews  of  a  man, 

To  work,  and  not  to  beg. 


FAIR    IXES.  13j 

Still  one  of  Adam's  heirs, 

Though  doomed  by  chance  of  birth 
To  dress  so  mean,  and  to  eat  the  lean 

Instead  of  the  fat  of  the  earth ; 
To  make  such  humble  meals 

As  honest  labor  can, 
A  bone  and  a  crust,  with  a  grace  to  God, 

And  little  thanks  to  man ! 

A  spade  !  a  rake  !  a  hoe ! 

A  pickaxe,  or  a  bill ! 
A  hook  to  reap,  or  a  scythe  to  mow, 

A  flail,  or  what  ye  will  — 
Whatever  the  tool  to  ply, 

Here  is  a  willing  drudge, 
With  muscle  and  limb,  and  woe  to  him 

Who  does  their  pay  begrudge ! 

Who  every  weekly  score 

Docks  labor's  little  mite, 
Bestows  on  the  poor  at  the  temple  door, 

But  robbed  them  over  night. 
The  very  shilling  lie  hoped  to  save, 

As  health  and  morals  fail, 
Shall  visit  me  in  the  New  Bastile 

The  Spital,  or  the  Gaol ! 


FAIR   IXES. 


0  SAW  ye  not  fair  Lies? 
She's  gone  into  the  west, 
To  dazzle  when  the  sun  is  down, 
And  rob  the  world  of  rest: 


136  FAIR    INES. 

She  took  our  daylight  with  her, 
The  smiles  that  we  love  best, 
With  morning  blushes  on  her  cheek, 
And  pearls  upon  her  breast. 

0  turn  again,  fair  Inos, 
Before  the  fall  of  night, 

For  fear  the  moon  should  shine  alone, 

And  stars  unrivalled  bright ; 

And  blessed  will  the  lover  be 

That  walks  beneath  their  light, 

And  breathes  the  love  against  thy  cheek 

1  dare  not  even  write  ! 

Would  I  had  been,  fab-  Ines, 

That  gallant  cavalier, 

Who  rode  so  gayly  by  thy  side, 

And  whispered  thee  so  near!  — 

Were  there  no  bonny  dames  at  home, 

Or  no  true  lovers  here, 

That  he  should  cross  the  seas  to  win 

The  dearest  of  the  dear  ? 

I  saw  thee,  lovely  Ines, 

Descend  along  the  shore, 

With  bands  of  noble  gentlemen, 

And  banners  waved  before: 

And  gentle  youth  and  maidens  gay, 

And  snowy  plumes  they  wore ;  — 

It  would  have  been  a  beauteous  dream, 

■ —  If  it  had  been  no  more  ! 

Alas,  alas  !  fair  Ines, 

She  went  awav  will]  sons;, 


THE    DEPARTURE    OF    SUMMER.  137 

"With  music  waiting  on  her  steps, 

And  shoutings  of  the  throng ; 

But  some  were  sad,  and  felt  no  mirth, 

But  only  music's  wrong, 

In  sounds  that  sang  farewell,  farewell, 

To  her  you've  loved  so  long. 

Farewell,  farewell,  fair  Lies ! 

That  vessel  never  bore 

So  fair  a  lady  on  its  deck, 

Nor  danced  so  light  before, — 

Alas  for  pleasure  on  the  sea, 

And  sorrow  on  the  shore  ! 

The  smile  that  blest  one  lover's  heart 

Has  broken  many  more  ! 


THE   DEPARTURE  OF   SUMMER. 

SUMMER  is  gone  on  swallows'  wings, 
And  earth  lias  buried  all  her  flowers  .• 
No  more  the  lark,  the  linnet  sings, 
But  silence  sits  in  faded  bowers. 
There  is  a  shadow  on  the  plain 
Of  Winter  ere  he  comes  again, — 
There  is  in  woods  a  solemn  sound 
Of  hollow  warnings  whispered  round, 
As  Echo  in  her  deep  recess 
For  once  had  turned  a  prophetess. 
Shuddering  Autumn  stops  to  list, 
And  breathes  his  fear  in  sudden  sighs, 
"With  clouded  lace,  and  hazel  eyes 
That  quench  themselves,  and  hide  in  mist. 
12* 


138  Till'.    DEPARTURE    OP    SUMMER. 

Yes,  Summer's  gone  like  pageant  bright ; 
Its  glorious  days  of  golden  light 
Are  gone  — the  mimic  suns  that  quiver, 
Then  melt  in  Time's  dark-flowing  river. 
Gone  the  sweetly-scented  breeze 
That  spoke  in  music  to  the  trees ; 
Gone  for  damp  and  chilly  breath, 
As  if  fresh  blown  o'er  marble  seas, 
Or  newly  from  the  lungs  of  Death. 
Gone  its  virgin  roses'  blushes, 
Warm  as  when  Aurora  rushes 
Freshly  from  the  god's  embrace, 
With  all  her  shame  upon  her  face. 
Old  Time  hath  laid  them  in  the  mould ; 
Sure  he  is  blind  as  well  as  old, 
Whose  hand  relentless  never  spares 
Young  cheeks  so  beauty-bright  tis  theirs! 
Gone  are  the  flame-eyed  lovers  now 
From  where  so  blushing-blest  they  tarried 
Under  the  hawthorn's  blossom-bough, 
Gone ;  for  ]  )ay  and  Night  are  married. 
All  the  light  of  love  is  fled  :  — 
Alas !  that  negro  breasts  should  hide 
The  lips  that  were  so  rosy  red, 
At  morning  and  at  even-tide  ! 

Delightful  Summer!  then  adieu 
Till  thou  shalt  visit  us  anew  : 
But  who  without  regretful  sigh 
Can  say  adieu,  and  see  thee  fly  P 
Not  he  that  e'er  hath  felt  thy  power, 
J  lis  joy  expanding  like  a  flower 
That  cometh  after  rain  and  snow, 
Looks  up  at  heaven,  and  learns  to  glow :  — 


THE    DEPARTURE    OF   SUMMER.  139 

Not  he  that  fled  from  Babel-strife 
To  the  green  Sabbath-land  of  life, 
To  dodge  dull  Care  'mid  clustered  trees, 
And  cool  his  forehead  in  the  breeze, — 
Whose  spirit,  weary-worn  perchance, 
Shook  from  its  wings  a  weight  of  grief, 
And  perched  upon  an  aspen-leaf, 
For  every  breath  to  make  it  dance. 

Farewell !  —  on  wings  of  sombre  stain, 
That  blacken  in  the  last  blue  skies, 
Thou  fly'st ;  but  thou  wilt  come  again 
On  the  gay  wings  of  butterflies. 
Spring  at  thy  approach  will  sprout 
Her  new  Corinthian  beauties  out, 
Leaf- woven  homes,  where  twitter- words 
Will  grow  to  songs,  and  eggs  to  birds ; 
Ambitious  buds  shall  swell  to  flowers, 
And  April  smiles  to  sunny  hours. 
Bright  days  shall  be,  and  gentle  nights 
Full  of  soft  breath  and  echo-lights, 
As  if  the  god  of  sun-time  kept 
His  eyes  half-open  while  he  slept. 
Roses  shall  be  where  roses  were, 
Not  shadows,  but  reality  ; 
As  if  they  never  perished  there, 
But  slept  in  immortality: 
Nature  shall  thrill  with  new  delight, 
And  Time's  relumined  river  run 
"Warm  as  young  blood,  and  dazzling  bright 
As  if  its  source  were  in  the  sun ! 

But  say,  hath  Winter  then  no  charms? 
Is  there  no  joy,  no  gladness,  warms 


J  40  THE    DEPARTURE    OF   SUMMER. 

His  aged  heart  ?  no  happy  wiles 
To  cheat  the  hoary  one  to  smiles  ? 
Onward  he  conies —  the  cruel  North 
Pours  his  furious  whirlwind  forth 
Before  him  —  and  we  breathe  the  breath 
Of  famished  bears  that  howl  to  death. 
Onward  he  comes  from  rocks  that  blanch 
O'er  solid  streams  that  never  flow  ; 
His  tears  all  ice,  his  locks  all  snow, 
Just  crept  from  some  huge  avalanche  — 
A  thing  half-breathing  and  half-warm, 
As  if  one  spark  began  to  glow 
Within  some  statue's  marble  form, 
Or  pilgrim  stiffened  in  the  storm. 
O  !  will  not  Mirth's  light  arrows  fail 
To  pierce  that  frozen  coat  of  mail  ? 
O!  will  not  joy  but  strive  in  vain 
To  light  up  those  glazed  eyes  again  ? 

No!  take  him  in,  and  blaze  the  oak, 
And  pour  the  wine,  and  warm  the  ale ; 
His  sides  shall  shake  to  many  a  joke, 
His  tongue  shall  thaw  in  many  a  tale, 
His  eyes  grow  bright,  Iris  heart  be  gay, 
And  even  his  palsy  charmed  away. 
What  heeds  he  then  the  boisterous  shout 
Of  angry  winds  that  scold  without, 
Like  shrewish  wives  at  tavern  door  ? 
What  heeds  he  then  the  wild  uproar 
Of  billows  bursting  on  the  shore  ? 
In  dashing  waves,  in  howling  breeze, 
There  is  a  music  that  can  charm  him  ; 
When  safe,  and  sheltered,  and  at  ease, 
He  hears  the  storm  that  cannot  harm  him. 


THE    DEPARTURE    OF   SUMMER.  141 

But  hark  !  those  shouts  !  that  sudden  din 
Of  little  hearts  that  laugh  within. 
O !  take  him  where  the  youngsters  play, 
And  he  will  grow  as  young  as  they! 
They  come  !  they  come  !  each  blue-eyed  Sport, 
The  Twelfth-Night  King  and  all  his  court  — 
'Tis  Mirth  fresh  crowned  with  mistletoe! 
Music  with  her  merry  fiddles, 
Joy  '•  on  light  fantastic  toe," 
Wit  with  all  his  jests  and  riddles, 
Singing  and  dancing  as  they  go. 
And  Love,  young  Love,  among  the  rest, 
A  welcome  —  nor  unhidden  guest. 

But  still  for  Summer  dost  thou  grieve  ? 
Then  read  our  poets  —  they  shall  weave 
A  garden  of  green  fancies  still, 
Where  thy  wish  may  rove  at  wilL 
They  have  kept  for  after  treats 
The  essences  of  summer  sweets, 
And  echoes  of  its  songs  that  wind 
In  endless  music  through  the  mind  : 
They  have  stamped  in  visible  traces 
The  "  thoughts  that  breathe,"  in  words  that  shine 
The  flights  of  soul  in  sunny  places  — 
To  greet  and  company  with  thine. 
These  shall  wing  thee  on  to  flowers  — 
The  past  or  future  that  shall  seem 
All  the  brighter  in  thy  dream 
For  blowing  in  such  desert  hours. 
The  summer  never  shines  so  bright 
As  thought  of  in  a  winter's  night; 

And  the  sweetest,  loveliest  rose 
Is  in  the  bud  before  it  blows  ; 


142  ODE  :    AUTUMN. 

The  dear  one  of  the  lover's  heart 

Is  painted  to  his  longing  eyes, 

In  charms  she  ne'er  can  realize  — 

But  when  she  turns  again  to  part. 

Dream  thou  then,  and  bind  thy  brow 

With  wreath  of  fancy  roses  now, 

And  drink  of  summer  in  the  cup 

Where  the  Muse  hath  mixed  it  up ; 

The  "  dance,  and  song,  and  sun-burnt  mirth," 

With  the  warm  nectar  of  the  earth  : 

Drink  !  'twill  glow  in  every  vein, 

And  thou  shalt  dream  the  winter  through  : 

Then  waken  to  the  sun  again, 

And  find  thy  summer  vision  true ! 


ODE:  AUTUMN. 


I  SAW  old  Autumn  in  the  misty  morn 
Stand  shadowless  like  silence,  listening 
To  silence,  for  no  lonelv  bird  would  sins: 
Into  his  hollow  ear  from  woods  forlorn, 
Nor  lowly  hedge  nor  solitary  thorn  ;  — 
Shaking  his  languid  locks  all  dewy  bright 
With  tangled  gossamer  that  fell  by  night, 
Pearling  his  coronet  of  golden  corn. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Summer  ?  —  With  the  sun, 

Oping  the  dusky  eyelids  of  the  South, 

Till  shade  and  silence  waken  up  as  one, 

And  Morning  sings  with  a  warm  odorous  mouth. 

Where  are  the  merry  birds?  —  Away,  away, 

On  panting  wings  through  the  inclement  skies, 


ODE  !    AUTUMN.  J  43 

Lest  owls  should  prey 

Undazzled  at  noon-day, 
And  tear  with  horny  beak  their  lustrous  eyes. 
Where  are  the  blooms  of  Summer  ?  —  In  the  west, 
Blushing  their  last  to  the  last  sunny  hours, 
When  the  mild  Eve  by  sudden  Night  is  prest 
Like  tearful  Proserpine,  snatched  from  her  flowers 

To  a  most  gloomy  breast. 
Where  is  the  pride  of  Summer,  —  the  green  prime,— 
The  many,  many  leaves  all  twinkling  ?  —  Three 
On  the  mossed  elm  ;  three  on  the  naked  lime 
Trembling, —  and  one  upon  the  old  oak  tree  ! 

Where  is  the  Dryad's  immortality  ?  — 
Gone  into  mournful  cypress  and  dark  yew, 
Or  wearing  the  long  gloomy  Winter  through 

In  the  smooth  holly's  green  eternity. 
The  squirrel  gloats  on  his  accomplished  hoard, 
The  ants  have  brimmed  their  garners  with  ripe  grain, 

And  honey-bees  have  stored 
The  sweets  of  summer  in  their  luscious  cells ; 
The  swallows  all  have  winged  across  the  main; 
But  here  the  Autumn  melancholy  dwells, 

And  sighs  her  tearful  spells 
Amongst  the  sunless  shadows  of  the  plain. 

Alone,  alone, 

Upon  a  mossy  stone, 
She  sits  and  reckons  up  the  dead  and  gene, 
With  the  last  leaves  for  a  love-rosary, 
Whilst  all  the  withered  world  looks  drearily, 
Like  a  dim  picture  of  the  drowned  past 
In  the  hushed  mind's  mysterious  far  away, 
Doubtful  what  ghostly  thing  will  steal  the  last 
Into  that  distance,  gray  upon  the  gray. 


141  SONG. 

O,  go  and  sit  with  her,  and  be  o'ershaded 

Under  the  languid  downfall  of  her  hair : 
She  wears  a  coronal  of  flowers  faded 
Upon  her  forehead,  and  a  face  of  care  ;  — 
There  is  enough  of  withered  every  where 
To  make  her  bower,  —  and  enough  of  gloom ; 
There  is  enough  of  sadness  to  invite,       » 
If  only  for  the  rose  that  died,  —  whose  doom 
Is  Beauty's,  —  she  that  with  the  living  bloom 
Of  conscious  cheeks  most  beautifies  the  light ;  - 
There  is  enough  of  sorrowing,  and  quite 
Enough  of  bitter  fruits  the  earth  doth  bear,  — 
Enough  of  chilly  droppings  for  her  bowl ; 
Enough  of  fear  and  shadowy  despair, 
To  frame  her  cloudy  prison  for  the  soul ! 


SONG. 

FOR    MUSIC. 


A  LAKE  and  a  fairy  boat 

To  sail  in  the  moonlight  clear,  — 

And  merrily  we  would  float 

From  the  dragons  that  watch  us  here! 

Thy  gown  should  be  snow-white  silk  ,* 
And  strings  of  orient  pearls, 
Like  gossamers  dipped  in  milk, 
Should  twine  with  thy  raven  curls ! 

Red  rubies  should  deck  thy  hands, 
And  diamonds  should  be  thy  dower  — 
But  fairies  have  broke  their  wands, 
And  wishing  has  lost  its  power ! 


BALLAD.  145 


BALLAD. 

Spring  it  is  cheery, 

Winter  is  dreary, 
Green  leaves  hang,  but  the  brown  must  fly ; 

When  he's  forsaken, 

Withered  and  shaken, 
What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  ? 

Love  will  not  clip  him, 

Maids  will  not  lip  him, 
Maud  and  Marian  pass  him  by  ; 

Youth  it  is  sunny, 

Age  has  no  honey,  — 
What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  ? 


Juno  it  was  jolly, 

O  for  its  folly  ! 
A  dancing  leg  and  a  laughing  eye  ; 

Youth  may  be  silly, 

Wisdom  is  chilly,  — 
What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  ? 

Friends  they  are  scanty, 
Beggars  arc  plenty, 

If  he  has  followers,  I  know  why; 
Gold's  in  his  clutches, 
(  Buying  him  crutches  !)  — 

What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  ? 
13 


146  HYMN    TO    THE    SUN. 


HYMN    TO   THE   SUN. 

Giver  of  glowing  light ! 
Though  but  a  god  of  other  days, 

The  kings  and  sages 

Of  wiser  ages 
Still  live  and  gladden  in  thy  genial'  rays. 

King  of  the  tuneful  lyre, 
Still  poets'  hymns  to  thee  hclong  ; 

Though  lips  are  cold 

Whereon  of  old 
Thy  beams  all  turned  to  worshipping  and  song ! 

Lord  of  the  dreadful  bow, 
None  triumph  now  for  Python's  death; 

But  thou  dost  save 

From  hungry  grave 
The  life  that  hangs  upon  a  summer  breath. 

Father  of  rosy  day, 
No  more  thy  clouds  of  incense  rise ; 

But  waking  flowers 

At  morning  hours 
Give  out  their  sweets  to  meet  thee  in  the  skies, 

God  of  the  Delphic  fane, 
No  more  thou  listenest  to  hymns  sublime ; 

But  they  will  leave 

On  winds  at  eve 
A  solemn  echo  to  the  end  of  time. 


AUTUMN. — TO    A    COLD    BEAUTY.  147 


AUTUMN. 

The  autumn  skies  are  flushed  with  gold, 
And  fair  and  bright  the  rivers  run  ; 
These  are  hut  streams  of  winter  cold, 
And  painted  mists  that  quench  the  sun. 

In  secret  boughs  no  sweet  birds  sing, 
In  secret  boughs  no  bird  can  shroud  ; 
These  are  but  leaves  that  take  to  wing, 
And  wintry  winds  that  pipe  so  loud. 

Tis  not  trees'  shade,  but  cloudy  glooms 
That  on  the  cheerless  valleys  fall ; 
The  flowers  are  in  their  grassy  tombs, 
And  tears  of  dew  are  on  them  all. 


TO  A  COLD  BEAUTY. 

Lady,  wouldst  thou  heiress  be 
To  Winter's  cold  and  cruel  part  ? 

When  he  sets  the  rivers  free. 

Thou  dost  still  lock  up  thy  heart;  — 

Thou  that  shouldst  outlast  the  snow 

But  in  the  whiteness  of  thy  brow  ? 

Scom  and  cold  neglect  are  maclc 
For  winter  gloom  and  winter  wind, 

But  thou  wilt  wrung  the  summer  air, 
Breathing  it  to  words  unkind, — 

Breath  which  only  should  belong 

To  love,  to  sunlight,  and  to  song ! 


148  RUTH. 

Wlicn  the  little  buds  unclose, 

Red,  and  white,  and  pied,  and  blue, 

And  that  virgin  flower,  the  rose, 
Opes  her  heart  to  hold  the  dew, 

Wilt  thou  lock  thy  bosom  up 

With  no  jewel  in  its  cup  ? 

Let  not  cold  December  sit 

Thus  in  Love's  peculiar  throne  ;  — 

Brooklets  are  not  prisoned  now, 
But  crystal  frosts  are  all  agone, 

And  that  which  hangs  upon  the  spray, 

It  is  no  snow,  but  flower  of  May ! 


RUTH. 

She  stood  breast-high  amid  the  com, 
Clasped  by  the  golden  light  of  morn, 
Like  the  sweetheart  of  the  sun, 
Who  many  a  glowing  kiss  had  won. 

On  her  cheek  an  autumn  flush, 
Deeply  ripened  ;  —  such  a  blush 
In  the  midst  of  brown  was  bom, 
Like  red  poppies  grown  with  corn. 

Round  her  eyes  her  tresses  fell ; 
Which  were  blackest  none  could  tell, 
But  long  lashes  veiled  a  light 
That  had  else  been  all  too  bright. 

And  her  hat,  with  shady  brim, 
Made  her  tressy  forehead  dim  ;  — 
Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stocks, 
Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks: — ■ 


Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stooks, 
Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks. 

Ruth.— Pajrc  148. 


BALLAD.  149 

Sure,  I  said,  Heaven  did  not  mean 
Where  I  reap  thou  shouldst  but  glean ; 
Lay  thy  sheaf  adown,  and  come, 
Share  my  harvest  and  my  home. 


BALLAD. 


Sire's  up  and  gone,  the  graceless  girl ! 

And  robbed  my  failing  years  ; 
My  blood  before  was  thin  and  cold, 

But  now  'tis  turned  to  tears  ;  — 
My  shadow  falls  upon  my  grave  ; 

So  near  the  brink  I  stand, 
She  might  have  staid  a  little  yet, 

And  led  me  by  the  hand  ! 

Ay,  call  her  on  the  barren  moor, 

And  call  her  on  the  hill,  — 
'Tis  nothing  but  the  heron's  cry, 

And  plover's  answer  shrill ; 
My  child  is  flown  on  wilder  wings 

Than  they  have  ever  spread, 
And  I  may  even  walk  a  waste 

That  widened  when  she  fled. 

Full  many  a  thankless  child  has  been, 

But  never  one  like  mine  ; 
Her  meat  was  served  on  plates  of  gold, 

Her  drink  was  rosy  wine  ; 
But  now  she'll  share  the  robin's  food, 

And  sup  the  common  rill, 
Before  her  feet  will  turn  again 

To  meet  her  father's  will ! 
13* 


150  I  REMEMBER,  I    REMEMBER. 


I  REMEMBER,   I  REMEMBER, 

I  remember,  I  remember 
The  house  where  I  was  bom, 
The  little  window  where  the  sun 
Came  peeping  in  at  morn  ; 
He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon, 
Nor  brought  too  long  a  day, 

p3ut  now  I  often  wish  the  night 

-Had  borne  my  breath  away  ! 

I  remember,  I  remember 
The  roses  red  and  white, 
The  violets,  and  the  lily-cups, 
Those  flowers  made  of  light ! 
The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built, 
And  where  my  brother  set 
The  laburnum  on  his  birth-day, — 
The  tree  is  living:  vet ! 

I  remember,  I  remember 

Where  I  was  used  to  swinsr, 

And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 

To  swallows  on  the  wing  ; 

My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then, 

That  is  so  heavy  now, 

And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cooi 

The  fever  on  my  brow 


t 


I  remember,  I  remember 
The  fir-trees  dark  and  high  ; 
I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 
"Were  close  against  the  sky  : 


BALLAD.  15J 

It  was  a  childish  ignorance, 

But  now  'tis  little  joy 

To  know  I'm  further  off  from  heaven 

Than  when  I  was  a  boy. 


BALLAD. 


Sigh  on,  sad  heart,  for  Love's  eclipse 

And  Beauty's  fairest  queen, 
Though  'tis  not  for  my  peasant  lips 

To  soil  her  name  between  : 
A  king  might  lay  his  sceptre  down, 

But  I  am  poor  and  nought, 
The  brow  should  wear  a  golden  crown 

That  wears  her  in  its  thought. 


'n1 


The  diamonds  glancing  in  her  hair, 

Whose  sudden  beams  surprise, 
Might  bid  such  humble  hopes  beware 

The  glancing  of  her  eves  ; 
Yet  looking  once,  I  looked  too  long, 

And  if  my  love  is  sin, 
Death  follows  on  the  heels  of  wrong1. 

And  kills  the  crime  within. 

Her  dress  seemed  wove  of  lily  leaves, 

It  was  so  pure  and  fine, 
O  lofty  wears,  and  lowly  weaves, 

But  hoddan  gray  is  mine  ; 
And  homely  hose  must  step  apart, 

Where  gartered  princes  stand, 
But  may  he  wear  my  love  at  heart 

That  wins  her  lilv  hand  ! 


252  THE    WATER    LADY. 

Alas  !  there's  for  from  russet  frieze 

To  silks  and  satin  gowns, 
But  I  doubt  if  God  made  like  degrees 

In  courtly  hearts  and  clowns. 
My  father  wronged  a  maiden's  mirth, 

And  brought  her  cheeks  to  blame, 
And  all  that's  lordly  of  my  birth 

Is  my  reproach  and  shame  ! 

Tis  vain  to  weep,  —  'tis  vain  to  sigh, 

Tis  vain  this  idle  speech, 
For  where  her  happy  pearls  do  lie 

My  tears  may  never  reach  ; 
Yet  when  I'm  gone,  e'en  lofty  pride 

May  say  of  what  has  been, 
His  love  Avas  nobly  born  and  died, 

Though  all  the  rest  was  mean ! 

My  speech  is  rude,  —  but  speech  is  weak 

Such  love  as  mine  to  tell, 
Yet  had  I  words,  I  dare  not  speak, 

So,  lady,  fare  thee  well ; 
I  will  not  wish  thy  better  state 

Was  one  of  low  degree, 
But  I  must  weep  that  partial  fate 

Made  such  a  churl  of  me. 


THE  WATER  LADY. 

Alas  !  the  moon  should  ever  beam 
To  show  what  man  should  never  see !  • 
I  saw  a  maiden  on  a  stream, 
And  fan-  was  she  ! 


TO    AN    ABSEfiTEE.  153 

I  staid  a  while,  to  see  her  throw 
Her  tresses  hack,  that  all  heset 
The  fair  horizon  of  her  brow 
With  clouds  of  jet. 

I  staid  a  little  while  to  view 
Her  cheek,  that  wore  in  place  of  red 
The  bloom  of  water,  tender  blue, 
Daintily  spread. 

I  staid  to  watch,  a  little  space, 
Her  parted  lips  if  she  would  sing ; 
The  waters  closed  above  her  face 
With  many  a  ring. 

And  still  I  staid  a  little  more  ; 
Alas  !  she  never  comes  again  ! 
I  throw  my  flowers  from  the  shore, 
And  watch  in  vain. 

I  know  my  life  will  fade  away, 
I  know  that  I  must  vainly  pine  ; 
For  I  am  made  of  mortal  clay, 
But  she's  divine ! 


TO  AN   ABSENTEE. 

O'ER  hill,  and  dale,  and  distant  sea, 
Through  all  the  miles  thai  stretch  between, 
My  thought  must  fly  to  rest  on  thee, 
And  would,  though  worlds  should  intervene. 

Nay,  thou  arl  now  so  dear,  methinks 
The  further  we  are  forced  apart, 


154  SONG. 

Affection's  firm  elastic  links 

But  bind  the  closer  round  the  heart. 

For  now  we  sever  each  from  each, 
I  learn  what  I  have  lost  in  thee ; 
Alas  !  that  nothing  less  could  teach 
How  great  indeed  my  love  should  be  ! 

Farewell !  I  did  not  know  thy  worth  : 
But  thou  art  gone,  and  now  'tis  prized : 
So  angels  walked  unknown  on  earth, 
But  when  the}  Hew  were  recognized ! 


SONG. 

The  stars  are  with  the  voyager 

Wherever  he  may  sail  ; 
The  moon  is  constant  to  her  time ; 

The  sun  will  never  fail  ; 
But  follow,  follow  round  the  world, 

The  green  earth  and  the  sea ; 
So  love  is  with  the  lover's  heart, 

Wherever  he  may  be. 

Wherever  he  may  be,  the  stars 

Must  daily  lose  their  light ; 
The  moon  will  veil  her  in  the  shade; 

The  sun  will  set  at  night. 
The  sun  may  set,  but  constant  love 

Will  shine  when  he's  away; 
o  that  dull  night  is  never  night, 

And  day  is  brighter  day. 


ODE    TO    THE    MOON.  155 


ODE  TO  THE   MOON. 

Mother  of  light !  how  fairly  dost  thou  go 

Over  those  hoary  crests,  divinely  led  !  — 

Art  thou  that  huntress  of  the  silver  bow 

Fabled  of  old  ?     Or  rather  dost  thou  tread 

Those  cloud}'  summits  thence  to  gaze  below, 

Like  the  wild  chamois  from  her  Alpine  snow, 

Where  hunter  never  climbed,  —  secure  from  dread? 

How  many  antique  fancies  have  I  read 

Of  that  mild  presence  !  and  how  many  wrought ! 

Wondrous  and  bright, 

Upon  the  silver  light, 
Chasing  fair  figures  with  'be  artist,  Thought! 

What  art  thou  like  ?  —  sometimes  I  see  thee  ride 

A  far-bound  galley  on  its  perPous  way, 

Whilst  breezy  waves  toss  up  tlvir  silvery  spray  :  — 

Sometimes  behold  thee  glide. 
Clustered  by  all  thy  family  of  stars, 
Like  a  lone  widow,  through  the  welkin  wide, 
Whose  pallid  cheek  the  midnight  sorrow  mars;  — 
Sometimes  1  watch  thee  on  from  steep  to  rteep, 
Timidly  lighted  by  thy  vestal  torch, 
Till  in  some  Latmian  cave  1  see  thee  creep, 
To  catch  the  young  Endymion  asleep, — 
Leaving  thy  splendor  at  the  jagged  porch!-' 

O,  thou  art  beautiful,  howe'er  it  be! 
Huntress,  or  Dian,  or  whatever  named; 
And  he,  tli«'  veriesl  Pagan,  that  first  framed 
A  silver  idol,  and  ne'er  worshipped  thee!  — 
It  is  too  late,  or  thou  shouldst  have  my  knee: 


15G  0DE  T0  TUK  «oon. 

Too  late  now  for  the  old  Ephesian  vows, 
And  not  divine  the  crescent  on  thy  brows  !  — 
Yet,  call  thee  nothing  but  the  mere  mild  moon, 

Behind  those  chestnut  boughs, 
Casting  their  dappled  shadows  at  my  feet; 
I  will  be  grateful  for  that  simple  boon, 
In  many  a  thoughtful  verse  and  anthem  sweet, 
And  bless  thy  dainty  face  whene'er  we  meet. 

In  nights  far  gone,  —  ay,  far  away  and  dead,  — 

Before  Care-fretted  with  a  lidless  eye,  — 

I  was  thy  wooer  on  my  little  lied, 

Letting  the  early  hours  of  rest  go  by, 

To  see  thee  flood  the  heaven  with  milky  light, 

And  feed  thy  snow-white  swans,  before  I  slept ; 

For  thou  wert  then  purveyor  of  my  dreams,  — 

Thou  wert  the  fairies'  armorer,  that  kept 

Their  burnished  helms,  and  crowns,  and  corselets  bright, 

Their  spears  and  glittering  mails  ; 
And  ever  thou  didst  spill  in  winding  streams 

Sparkles  and  midnight  gleams, 
For  fishes  to  new  gloss  their  argent  scales !  — 

Why  sighs? — why  creeping  tears  ?— why  clasped  hands  ? 
Is  it  to  count  the  boy's  expended  dower  ? 
That  fairies  since  have  broke  their  gifted  wands  ? 
That  young  Delight,  like  any  o'crblown  flower, 
Gave,  one  by  one,  its  sweet  leaves  to  the  ground  ?  — 
Why  then,  fair  Moon,  for  all  thou  mark'st  no  hour, 
Thou  art  a  sadder  dial  to  old  Time 

Than  ever  I  have  found 
On  sunny  garden-plot,  or  moss-grown  tower, 
Mottoed  with  stern  and  melancholy  rhyme. 

Why  should  I  grieve  for  this  ?  —  O,  I  must  yearn, 
Whilst  Time,  conspirator  with  Memory, 


to  .  157 

Keeps  liis  cold  ashes  in  an  ancient  urn, 

Richly  embossed  with  childhood's  revelry, 

With  leaves  and  clustered  fruits,  and  flowers  eteme,  — 

(Eternal  to  the  world,  though  not  to  me.) 

Aye  there  will  those  brave  sports  and  blossoms  be, 

The  deathless  wreath,  and  undecayed  festoon, 

When  I  am  hearsed  within,  — 
Less  than  the  pallid  primrose  to  the  moon, 
That  now  she  watches  through  a  vapor  thin. 

So  let  it  be  :  —  Before  I  lived  to  sigh, 
Thou  wert  in  Avon,  and  a  thousand  rills, 
Beautiful  orb  !  and  so,  whene'er  I  lie 
Trodden,  thou  wilt  be  gazing  from  thy  hills. 
Blest  be  thy  loving  light,  where'er  it  spills, 
And  blessed  thy  fair  face.  O  mother  mild! 
Still  shine,  the  soul  of  rivers  as  they  run, 
Still  lend  thy  lonely  lamp  to  lovers  fond, 
And  blend  their  plighted  shadows  into  one:  — 
Still  smile  at  even  on  the  bedded  child, 
And  close  Ins  eyelids  with  thy  silver  wand ! 


TO 


WELCOME,  dear  heart,  and  a  most  kind  good-morrow; 
The  day  is  gloomy,  but  our  looks  shall  shine  :  — 
Flowers  1  have  none  to  give  thee,  but  1  borrow 
Their  sweetness  in  a  verse  to  speak  for  thine. 

Here  are  red  roses,  gathered  at  thy  cheeks, — 
The  white  were  all  too  happy  to  look  white: 
For  love  the  rose,  f   ■  faith  the  lily  speaks  : 
It  withers  in  false  hands,  but  here  'tis  bright ! 
14 


158  THE    1\)USAKI'.\. 

Dost  love  sweet  hyacinth  ?     Its  scented  leaf 
Curls  manifold,  —  all  love's  delights  blow  double: 
Tis  said  this  floweret  is  inscribed  with  grief, — 
]Jut  let  that  hint  of  a  forgotten  trouble. 

I  plucked  the  primrose  at  night's  dewy  noon  ; 
Like  Hope,  it  showed  its  blossoms  in  the  night  ;- 
Twas  like  Endymion,  watching  for  the  moon ! 
And  here  are  sunflowers,  amorous  of  light ! 

These  golden  buttercups  are  April's  seal,  — 
The  daisy  stars  her  constellations  be  : 
These  grew  so  lowly,  1  was  forced  to  kneel, 
Therefore  I  pluck  no  daisies  but  for  thee ! 

Here's  daisies  for  the  morn,  primrose  for  gloom, 
Pansies  and  roses  for  the  noontide  hours  ;  — 
A  wight  once  made  a  dial  of  their  bloom, — 
So  may  thy  life  be  measured  out  by  flowers ! 


THE   FORSAKEN. 

The  dead  are  in  their  silent  graves, 
And  the  dew  is  cold  above, 
And  the  living  weep  and  sigh 
Over  dust  that  once  was  love. 

Once  I  only  wept  the  dead, 

But  now  the  living  cause  my  pain  ; 

How  couldst  thou  steal  m    from  my  tears, 

To  leave  me  to  my  tears  again  ? 


AUTUMN. 


159 


My  mother  rests  beneath  the  sod,  — 
Her  rest  is  calm  and  very  deep  : 
I  wished  that  she  could  see  our  loves,  — 
But  now  I  gladden  in  her  sleep. 

Last  night  unbound  my  raven  locks, 
The  morning  saw  them  turned  to  gray, 
Once  they  were  black  and  well  beloved, 
But  thou  art  changed,  —  and  so  are  they  ! 

The  useless  lock  I  gave  thee  once, 

To  gaze  upon  and  think  of  me, 

Was  ta'en  with  smiles,  —  but  this  was  torn 

In  sorrow  that  I  send  to  thee. 


AUTUMN. 


The  Autumn  is  old, 
The  sere  leaves  are  Hying;  — 
lie  hath  gathered  up  gold, 
And  now  he  is  dying;  — 
Old  age,  begin  sighing ! 

The  vintage  is  ripe, 
The  harvest  is  heaping ;  — 
But  some  that  have  sowed 
Have  no  riches  for  reaping;  — 
Poor  wretch,  fall  a  weeping  ! 

The  year's  in  the  wane, 
There  is  nothing  adorning, 
The  nighl  has  no  eve, 
And  the  day  lias  no  morning  j- 

Cold  winter  gives  warning. 


1(30  ODE    TO    MELANCHOLY. 

The  rivers  run  chill, 
The  red  sun  is  sinking, 
And  I  am  grown  old, 
And  life  is  fast  shrinking; 
Here's  enow  for  sad  tliinking ! 


ODE  TO   MELANCHOLY. 

Come,  let  us  set  our  careful  breasts, 
Like  Philomel,  against  the  thorn, 
To  aggravate  the  inward  grief, 
That  makes  her  accents  so  forlorn  ; 
The  world  has  man}'  cruel  points, 
Whereby  our  bosoms  have  been  torn, 
And  there  are  dainty  themes  of  grief, 
In  sadness  to  outlast  the  morn, — 
True  honor's  dearth,  affection's  death, 
Neglectful  pride  and  cankering  scorn, 
With  all  the  piteous  tales  that  tears 
Have  watered  since  the  world  was  born. 

The  world  !  —  it  is  a  wilderness, 
Where  tears  are  hung  on  every  tree ; 
For  thus  my  gloomy  fantasy 
Makes  all  things  weep  with  me ! 
Come  let  us  sit  and  watch  the  sky, 
And  fancy  clouds  where  no  clouds  be ; 
Grief  is  enough  to  blot  the  eye, 
And  make  heaven  black  with  misery. 
Why  should  birds  sing  such  mem-  notes, 
Unless  they  were  more  blest  than  we  ? 
No  sorrow  ever  chokes  their  throats, 
Except  sweet  nightingale  ;  for  she 


ODE    TO    MELANCHOLY.  161 

Was  born,  to  pain  our  hearts  the  more 
With  her  sad  melody. 
Why  shines  the  sun,  except  that  he 
Makes  gloomy  nooks  for  Grief  to  hide, 
And  pensive  shades  for  Melancholy, 
When  all  the  earth  is  bright  beside  ? 
Let  clay  wear  smiles,  and  green  grass  wave, 
Mirth  shall  not  win  us  back  again, 
Whilst  man  is  made  of  his  own  grave, 
And  fairest  clouds  but  gilded  rain  ! 

I  saw  my  mother  in  her  shroud, 
Her  cheek  was  cold  and  very  pale  ; 
And  ever  since  I've  looked  on  all 
As  creatures  doomed  to  (ail! 
Why  do  buds  ope,  except  to  die  ? 
Ay,  let  us  watch  the  roses  wither, 
And  think  of  our  loves'  cheeks  : 
And,  O,  how  quickly  time  doth  fly 
To  bring  death's  winter  hither  ! 
Minutes,  hours,  days,  and  weeks, 
Months,  years,  and  ages  shrink  to  nought, 
An  age  past  is  but  a  thought ! 

Ay,  let  us  think  of  him  a  while, 
That,  with  a  coHin  for  a  hoat, 
Rows  daily  o'er  the  Stygian  moat, 
And  for  our  table  choose  a  tomb  : 
There's  dark  enough  in  any  skull 
To  charge  with  black  a  raven  plume; 
And  for  the  saddest  funeral  thoughts 
A  winding-sheet  hath  ample  room. 
Where  Death,  with  his  keen-pointed  style, 
Hath  writ  the  common  doom. 
1  I  • 


]  G2  ODE    TO    MELANCHOLY. 

How  wide  the  yew-tree  spreads  its  gloom, 

And  o'er  the  dead  lets  fall  its  dew, 

As  if  in  tears  it  wept  for  them, 

The  many  human  families 

That  sleep  around  its  stem  ! 

How  cold  the  dead  have  made  these  stones, 

With  natural  drops  kept  ever  wet ! 

Lo  !  here  the  best,  the  worst,  the  world 

Doth  now  remember  or  forget, 

Are  in  one  common  ruin  hurled, 

And  love  and  hate  are  calmly  met ; 

The  loveliest  eyes  that  ever  shone, 

The  fairest  hands,  and  locks  of  jet. 

Is't  not  enough  to  vex  our  souls, 

And  fill  our  eyes,  that  we  have  set 

Our  love  upon  a  rose's  leaf, 

Our  hearts  upon  a  violet  ? 

Blue  eyes,  red  cheeks,  are  frailer  yet ; 

And,  sometimes,  at  their  swift  decay 

Beforehand  we  must  fret : 

The  roses  bud  and  bloom  again  ; 

But  love  may  haunt -the  grave  of  love, 

And  watch  the  mould  in  vain. 

O  clasp  me,  sweet,  whilst  thou  art  mine, 

And  do  not  take  my  tears  amiss  ; 

For  tears  must  Mow  to  wash  away 

A  thought  that  shows  so  stern  as  this  : 

Forgive,  if  somewhile  I  forget, 

In  woe  to  come,  the  present  bliss. 

As  frighted  Proserpine  let  fall 

Her  flowers  at  the  sight  of  Dis, 

Even  so  the  dark  and  bright  will  kiss. 

'^S*.  sunniest  things  throw  sternest  shade, 


ODE    TO    MELANCHOLY.  163 

And  there  is  even  a  happiness 

That  makes  the  heart  afraid  ! 

Now  let  us  Avith  a  spell  invoke 

The  full-orbed  moon  to  grieve  our  eyes ; 

Not  bright,  not  bright,  but,  with  a  cloud 

Lapped  all  about  her,  let  her  rise 

All  pale  and  dim,  as  if  from  rest 

The  ghost  of  the  late  buried  sun 

Had  crept  into  the  skies. 

The  moon  !  she  is  the  source  of  sighs, 

The  very  face  to  make  us  sad ; 

If  but  to  think  in  other  times 

The  same  calm,  quiet  look  she  had, 

As  if  the  world  held  nothing  base, 

Of  vile  and  mean,  of  fierce  and  bad  ; 

The  same  fair  light  that  shone  in  streams, 

The  fairy  lamp  that  charmed  the  lad  ; 

For  so  it  is,  with  spent  delights 

She  taunts  men's  brains,  and  makes  them  mad. 

All  things  are  touched  with  melancholy, 

Born  of  the  secret  soul's  mistrust, 

To  feel  her  fair  ethereal  wings 

Weighed  down  with  vile  degraded  dust ; 

Even  the  bright  extremes  of  joy 

Bring  on  conclusions  of  disgust, 

Like  the  sweet  blossoms  of  the  May, 

Whose  fragrance  ends  in  must. 

O,  give  her,  then,  her  tribute  just. 

Her  sighs  and  tears,  and  musings  holy! 

There  is  no  music  in  the  life 

That  sounds  with  idiot  laughter  solely; 

There's  not  a  string  attuned  to  mirth, 

But  has  its  chord  in  Melancholy. 


164  SONNETS. 

SONNETS. 

WRITTEN    IN    A    VOLUME    OF    SHAKSPEARE. 

How  bravely  Autumn  paints  upon  the  sky 

The  gorgeous  fame  of  Summer  which  is  tied ! 

Hues  of  all  flowers  that  in  their  ashes  lie, 

Trophied  in  that  fair  light  whereon  they  fed, 

Tulip,  and  hyacinth,  and  sweet  rose  red,  — 

Like  exhalations  from  the  leafy  mould, 

Look  here  how  honor  glorifies  the  dead, 

And  warms  their  scutcheons  with  a  glance  of  gold!  - 

Such  is  the  memory  of  poets  old, 

Who  on  Parnassus'  hill  have  bloomed  elate  ; 

Now  they  are  laid  under  their  marbles  cold, 

And  turned  to  clay,  whereof  they  were  create ; 

But  god  Apollo  hath  them  all  enrolled, 

And  blazoned  on  the  very  clouds  of  fate ! 


TO    FANCY. 

Most  delicate  Ariel !  submissive  thing, 
Won  by  the  mind's  high  magic  to  its  host,  — 
Invisible  embassy,  or  secret  guest,  — 
Weighing  the  light  air  on  a  lighter  wing;  — 
Whether  into  the  midnight  moon,  to  bring 
Illuminate  visions  to  the  eye  of  rest,  — 
Or  rich  romances  from  the  florid  West,  — 
Or  to  the  sea,  for  mystic  wliispering,  — 
Still  by  thy  charmed  allegiance  to  the  will 
The  fruitful  wishes  prosper  \P  *b*'  brain, 


SONNETS.  105 


As  by  the  fingering  of  fairy  skill,  — 
Moonlight,  and  waters,  and  soft  music's  strain, 
Odors,  and  blooms,  and  rmj  Miranda's  smile, 
Making  this  dull  world  an  enchanted  isle. 


TO    AN    ENTHUSIAST. 


Young  ardent  soul,  graced  with  fair  Nature's  truth, 
Spring  warmth  of  heart,  and  fervency  of  mind, 
And  still  a  large  late  love  of  all  thy  kind, 
Spite  of  the  world's  cold  practice  and  Time's  tooth, 
For  all  these  gifts,  I  know  not,  in  fair  sooth, 
AVhether  to  give  thee  joy,  or  bid  thee  blind 
Thine  eyes  with  tears,  —  that  thou  hast  not  resigned 
The  passionate  fire  and  freshness  of  thy  youth  : 
For  as  the  current  of  thy  life  shall  flow, 
Gilded  by  shine  of  sun  or  shadow-stained. 
Through  flowery  valley  or  unwholesome  fen, 
Thrice  blessed  in  thy  joy,  or  in  thy  woe 
Thrice  cursed  of  thy  race,  —  thou  art  ordained 
To  share  beyond  the  lot  of  common  men. 


It  is  not  death,  that  sometime  in  a  sigh 

This  eloquent  breath  shall  take  its  speechless  flight  : 

That  sometime  these  bright  stars,  that  now  reply 

In  sunlight  to  the  sun,  shall  set  in  night ; 

That,  this  warm  conscious  flesh  shall  perish  quite, 

And  all  life's  ruddy  springs  forget  to  flow  ; 

That  thoughts  shall  cease,  and  the  immortal  spright 

Be  lapped  in  alien  clay  and  laid  below; 

It  is  not  death  to  know  this, — but  to  know 


166  SONNETS. 

That  pious  thoughts,  which  visit  at  now  graves 

In  tender  pilgrimage,  will  cease  to  go 

So  duly  and  so  oft,  —  and  when  grass  waves 

Over  the  past-away,  there  may  be  then 

No  resurrection  in  the  minds  of  men. 


By  every  sweet  tradition  of  true  hearts, 
Graven  by  Time,  in  love  with  his  own  lore ; 
By  all  old  martyrdoms  and  antique  smarts, 
Wherein  Love  died  to  be  alive  the  more ; 
Yea,  by  the  sad  impression  on  the  shore 
Left  by  the  drowned  Leander,  to  endear 
That  coast  forever,  where  the  billows'  roar 
Moaneth  for  pity  in  the  poet's  ear  ; 
By  Hero's  faith,  and  the  foreboding  tear 
That  quenched  her  brand's  last  twinkle  in  its  fall ; 
By  Sappho's  leap,  and  the  low  rustling  fear 
That  sighed  around  her  flight ;  I  swear  by  all, 
The  world  shall  find  such  pattern  in  my  act, 
As  if  Love's  great  examples  still  were  lacked. 


ON    RECEIVING    A    GIFT. 

Look  how  the  golden  ocean  shines  above 

Its  pebbly  stones,  and  magnifies  their  girth; 

So  does  the  bright  and  blessed  light  of  love 

Its  own  things  glorify,  and  raise  their  worth. 

As  weeds  seem  flowers  beneath  the  flattering  brine, 

And  stones  like  gems,  and  gems  as  gems  indeed, 

Even  so  our  tokens  shine  ;  nay,  they  outshine 

Pebbles  and  pearls,  and  gems  and  coral  weed  j 


SONNETS.  2g7 

For  where  be  ocean  waves  but  half  so  clear, 
So  calmly  constant,  and  so  kindly  warm, 
As  Love's  most  mild  and  glowing  atmosphere, 
That  hath  no  dregs  to  be  upturned  by  storm  ? 
Thus,  sweet,  thy  gracious  gifts  are  gifts  of  price, 
And  more  than  gold  to  doting  Avarice. 


SILENCE. 

There  is  a  silence  where  hath  been  no  sound, 

There  is  a  silence  where  no  sound  may  be, 

In  the  cold  grave  —  under  the  deep,  deep  sea, 

Or  in  wide  desert  where  no  life  is  found, 

Which  hath  been  mute,  and  still  must  sleep  profound ; 

No  voice  is  hushed  —  no  life  treads  silently, 

But  clouds  and  cloudy  shadows  wander  free, 

That  never  spoke,  over  the  idle  ground  : 

But  in  green  ruins,  in  the  desolate  walls 

Of  antique  palaces,  where  Man  hath  been, 

Though  the  dun  fox,  or  wild  hyena,  calls, 

And  owls,  that  flit  continually  between, 

Shriek  to  the  echo,  and  the  low  winds  moan, 

There  the  true  Silence  is,  self-conscious  and  alone. 


The  curse  of  Adam,  the  old  curse  of  all 

Though  I  inherit  in  this  feverish  life 

Of  worldly  toil,  vain  wishes,  and  hard  strife, 

And  fruitless  thought,  in  Care's  eternal  thrall, 

Yet  more  sweel  honey  than  of  hitter  gall 

1  taste,  through  thee,  my  Eva,  my  sweet  wife. 


IQg  THE    LEE    SHORE. 

Then  what  was  Man's  lost  Paradise  !  —  how  rife 
Of  bliss,  since  love  is  with  him  in  his  fall ! 
Such  as  our  own  pure  passion  still  might  frame, 
Of  this  fair  earth,  and  its  delightful  bowers, 
If  no  fell  sorrow,  like  the  serpent,  came 
To  trail  its  venom  o'er  the  sweetest  flowers  :  — 
But,  O  !  as  many  and  such  tears  are  ours, 
As  only  should  be  shed  for  guilt  and  shame ! 


Love,  dearest  lady,  such  as  I  would  speak, 
Lives  not  within  the  humor  of  the  eye  ;  — 
Not  being  but  an  outward  fantasy, 
That  skims  the  surface  of  a  tinted  cheek  — 
Else  it  would  wane  with  beauty,  and  grow  weak, 
As  if  the  rose  made  summer,  —  and  so  lie 
Amongst  the  perishable  things  that  die, 
Unlike  the  love  which  I  would  give  and  seek, 
Whose  health  is  of  no  hue  —  to  feel  decay 
With  cheeks'  decay,  that  have  a  rosy  prime. 
Love  is  its  own  great  loveliness  alway, 
And  takes  new  lustre  from  the  touch  of  time ; 
Its  bough  owns  no  ]  )ecember  and  no  May, 
But  bears  its  blossom  into  Winter's  clime. 


THE   LEE   SHORE. 

Sleet  !  and  hail !  and  thunder  ! 

And  ye  winds  that  rave, 
Till  the  sands  thereunder 

Tinjre  the  sullen  wave  — 


Lot  Angetea.Cal. 


THE    DEATH-BED.  \Q§ 

Winds,  that  like  a  demon 

Howl  with  horrid  note 
Round  the  toiling  seaman, 

In  his  tossing  boat  — 

From  his  humble  dwelling 

On  the  shingly  shore, 
Where  the  billows  swelling 

Keep  such  hollow  roar  — 

From  that  weeping  woman, 

Seeking  with  her*cries 
Succor  superhuman 

From  the  frowning  skies  — 

From  the  urchin  pining 

For  his  father's  knee  — 
From  the  lattice  shining, 

Drive  him  out  to  sea  ! 

Let  broad  leagues  dissever 

Him  from  yonder  foam;  — 
O,  God !  to  think  man  ever 

Comes  too  near  Ins  home  ! 


THE  DEATH-BED. 

We  watched  her  breathing  through  the  night, 

Her  breathing  soft  and  low, 
As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 

Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 
15 


170  LINES. 

So  silently  we  seemed  to  speak, 

So  slowly  moved  about, 
As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 

To  eke  her  living  out. 

Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears, 
Our  fears  our  hopes  belied  — 

We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept, 
And  sleeping  when  she  died. 

For  when  the  morn  came  dim  and  sad, 
And  chill  with^early  showers, 

Her  quiet  eyelids  closed  —  she  had 
Another  morn  than  ours. 


LINES 


ON    SEEING    MY   WIFE     AND     TWO    CHILDREN    SLEEPING    IN 
THIS    SAME    CHAMBER. 

And  has  the  earth  lost  its  so  spacious  round, 
The  sky  its  blue  circumference  above, 
That  in  this  little  chamber  there  is  found 
Both  earth  and  heaven  —  my  universe  of  love ! 
All  that  my  God  can  give  me  or  remove, 
Here  sleeping,  save  myself,  in  mimic  death. 
Sweet  that  in  this  small  compass  I  behove 
To  live  their  living  and  to  breathe  their  breath ! 
Almost  I  wish  that  with  one  common  sigh 
We  might  resign  all  mundane  care  and  strife, 
And  seek  together  that  transcendent  sky, 
Where  father,  mother,  children,  husband,  wife, 
Together  pant  hi  everlasting  life ! 


TO    MY    DAUGHTER. — TO    A    CHILD.  171 


TO   MY   DAUGHTER,  ON   HER  BIRTHDAY. 

Dear  Fanny!  nine  long  years  ago, 
While  yet  the  morning  sun  was  low, 
And  rosy  with  the  eastern  glow 

The  landscape  smiled  ; 
Whilst  lowed  the  newly-wakened  herds — . 
Sweet  as  the  early  song  of  birds, 
I  heard  those  first,  delightful  words, 

"  Thou  hast  a  child ! " 

Along  with  that  uprising  dew 

Tears  glistened  in  my  eyes,  though  few. 

To  hail  a  dawning  quite  as  new, 

To  me,  as  time  : 
It  was  not  sorrow  —  not  annoy  — 
But  like  a  happy  maid,  though  coy, 
With  grief-like  welcome,  even  joy 

Forestalls  its  prime. 

So  mayst  thou  live,  dear !  many  years, 

In  all  the  bliss  that  life  endears, 

Not  without  smiles,  nor  yet  from  tears 

Too  strictly  kept : 
When  first  thy  infant  littleness 
I  folded  in  my  fond  caress, 
The  greatest  proof  of  happiness 

Was  this  —  I  wept. 


TO   A   CHILD   EMBRACING   HIS   MOTHER, 

Love  thy  mother,  little  one  ! 
Kiss  and  clasp  her  neck  again,  — ■ 
Hereafter  she  may  have  a  son 


172  STANZAS. 

Will  kiss  and  clasp  her  neck  in  vain. 
Love  thy  mother,  little  one  ! 

Gaze  upon  her  living  eyes, 
And  mirror  hack  her  love  for  thee, — 
Hereaftei  thou  mayst  shudder  sighs 
To  meet  them  when  they  cannot  see. 
Gaze  upon  her  living  eyes ! 

Press  her  lips  the  while  they  glow 
With  love  that  they  have  often  told,  — 
Hereafter  thou  mayst  press  in  woe, 
And  kiss  them  till  thine  own  are  cold. 
Press  her  lips  the  while  they  glow ! 

O,  revere  her  raven  hair  ! 
Although  it  be  not  silver-gray ; 
Too  early  death,  led  on  by  care, 
May  snatch  save  one  dear  lock  rway. 
O  !  revere  her  raven  hair  ! 

Pray  for  her  at  eve  and  morn, 
That  heaven  may  long  the  stroke  defer,  ■ 
For  thou  mayst  live  the  hour  forlorn 
When  thou  wilt  ask  to  die  with  her. 
Pray  for  her  at  eve  and  morn ! 


STANZAS. 


Farewell  life  !  my  senses  swim, 
And  the  world  is  growing  dim  : 
Thronging  shadows  cloud  the  light, 
Like  the  advent  of  the  night  — 


TO    A    FALSE    FRIEND.  173 

Colder,  colder,  colder  still, 
Upward  steals  a  vapor  chill ; 
Strong  the  earthy  odor  grows  — 
1  smell  the  mould  above  the  rose ! 

Welcome  life  !  the  spirit  strives  ! 
Strength  returns  and  hope  revives ; 
Cloudy  fears  and  shapes  forlorn 
Fly  like  shadows  at  the  morn,  — 
O'er  the  earth  there  comes  a  bloom  ; 
Sunny  light  for  sullen  gloom, 
Warm  perfume  for  vapor  cold  — 
I  smell  the  rose  above  the  mould ! 

April,  1840. 


TO  A  FALSE  FRIEND. 

Our  hands  have  met,  but  not  our  hearts  ; 

Our  hands  will  never  meet  again. 

Friends  if  we  have  ever  been, 

Friends  we  cannot  now  remain  : 

I  only  know  I  loved  you  once, 

I  only  know  I  loved  in  vain  ; 

Our  hands  have  met,  but  not  our  hearts ; 

Our  hands  will  never  meet  again  ! 

Then  farewell  to  heart  and  hand ! 

I  would  our  hands  had  never  met  : 

Even  the  outward  form  of  love 

Must  be  resigned  with  some  regret. 

Friends  we  Still  mighl  seem  to  be, 

If  my  wrong  could  e'er  forget 

Our  hands  have  joined,  but  not  our  hearts' 

I  would  our  hands  had  never  met ! 


174  THE    POET'S    PORTION. 


THE  POET'S   PORTION. 

What  is  a  mine  —  a  treasury—  a  dower 

A  magic  talisman  of  mighty  power  ? 

A  poet's  wide  possession  of  the  earth. 

He  has  the  enjoyment  of  a  flower's  birth 

Before  its  budding  —  ere  the  first  red  streaks,-^ 

And  whiter  cannot  rob  him  of  their  cheeks. 

Look  —  if  his  dawn  be  not  as  other  men's! 

Twenty  bright  flushes  —  ere  another  kens 

The  first  of  sunlight  is  abroad  —  he  sees 

Its  golden  'lection  of  the  topmost  trees, 

And  opes  the  splendid  fissures  of  the  mom. 

When  do  his  fruits  delay,  when  doth  his  corn 

Linger  for  harvesting  ?     Before  the  leaf 

Is  commonly  abroad,  in  Ids  piled  sheaf 

The  flagging  poppies  lose  their  ancient  flame. 

No  sweet  there  is,  no  pleasure  I  can  name, 

"But  he  will  sip  it  first  —  before  the  lees. 

'Tis  his  to  taste  rich  honey,  —  ere  the  bees 

Are  busy  with  the  brooms.     He  may  forestall 

June's  rosy  advent  for  his  coronal  ; 

Before  the  expectant  buds  upon  the  bough, 

Twining  his  thoughts  to  bloom  upon  his  brow. 

O !  blest  to  see  the  flower  in  its  seed, 

Before  its  leafy  presence  ;  for  indeed 

Leaves  are  but  Avings,  on  which  the  summer  flies, 

And  each  thing  perishable  fades  and  dies, 

Escaped  in  thought ;  but  his  rich  thinkings  be 

Like  overflows  of  immortality. 

So  that  what  there  is  steeped  shall  perish  never, 

But  live  and  bloom,  and  be  a  joy  forever. 


TIME,    HOPE,    AND   MEMORY.  — SONG.  17  j 


TB1E,   HOPE,  AND   MEMORY. 

I  HEARD  a  gentle  maiden,  in  the  spring, 
Set  her  sweet  sighs  to  music,  and  thus  sing  : 
"  Fly  through  the  world,  and  I  will  follow  thee, 
Only  for  looks  that  may  turn  back  on  me  ; 

"  Only  for  roses  that  your  chance  may  throw  — 
Though  withered  —  I  will  wear  them  on  my  brow, 
To  be  a  thoughtful  fragrance  to  my  brain  ; 
Warmed  with  such  love,  that  they  will  bloom  again. 

"  Thy  love  before  thee,  I  must  tread  behind, 
Kissing  thy  foot-prints,  though  to  me  unkind ; 
But  trust  not  all  her  fondness,  though  it  seem, 
Lest  thy  true  love  should  rest  on  a  false  dream. 

"  Her  face  is  smiling,  and  her  voice  is  sweet : 

But  smiles  betray,  and  music  sings  deceit ; 

And  words  speak  false; ;  —  yet,  if  they  welcome  prove, 

I'll  be  their  echo,  and  repeat  their  love. 

"  Only  if  wakened  to  sad  truth,  at  last, 
The  bitterness  to  come,  and  sweetness  past; 
When  thou  art  vext,  then,  turn  again,  and  see 
Thou  hast  loved  Hope,  but  Memory  loved  thee." 


SONG. 

O  lada',  leave  thy  silken  thread 
And  flowery  tapestrie  : 

There's  living  roses  on  the  bush, 
And  blossoms  on  the  tree  ; 


17G  FLOWERS. 

Stoop  where  thou  wilt,  thy  careless  hand 
Some  random  bud  will  meet ; 

Thou  canst  not  tread,  hut  thou  wilt  find 
The  daisy  at  thy  feet. 

Tis  like  the  birthday  of  the  world, 

When  earth  was  born  in  bloom ; 
The  light  is  made  of  many  dyes, 

The  air  is  all  perfume  ; 
There's  crimson  buds,  and  white  and  blue  • 

The  very  rainbow  showers 
Have  turned  to  blossoms  where  they  fell, 

And  sown  the  earth  with  flowers. 

There's  fairy  tulips  in  the  east, 

The  garden  of  the  sun  ; 
The  very  streams  reflect  the  hues,    ■ 

And  blossom  as  they  run  : 
While  Morn  opes  like  a  crimson  rose, 

Still  wet  with  pearly  showers  ; 
Then,  lady,  leave  the  silken  thread 

Thou  twinest  into  flowers ! 


FLOWERS. 


I  will  not  have  the  mad  Clytie, 
Whose  head  is  turned  by  the  sun ; 
The  tulip  is  a  courtly  quean, 
Whom,  therefore,  I  will  shun  ; 
The  cowslip  is  a  country  wench, 
The  violet  is  a  nun  ;  — 
But  I  will  woo  the  dainty  rose, 
The  queen  of  every  one. 


to  .  177 

The  pea  is  but  a  wanton  witch, 
In  too  much  haste  ^o  wed, 
And  clasps  her  rings  on  every  hand  - 
The  wolfsbane  I  should  dread  ;  — 
Nor  will  I  dreary  rosemarye, 
That  always  mourns  the  dead  ;  — 
But  I  will  woo  the  dainty  rose, 
With  her  cheeks  of  tender  red. 

The  lily  is  all  in  white,  like  a  saint, 

And  so  is  no  mate  for  me  — 

And  the  daisy's  cheek  is  tipped  with  a  blush, 

She  is  of  such  low  degree ; 

Jasmine  is  sweet,  and  has  many  loves, 

And  the  broom's  betrothed  to  the  bee ;  — 

But  I  will  plight  with  the  dainty  rose, 

For  fairest  of  all  is  she. 


TO 


Still  glides  the  gentle  streamlet  on, 
With  shifting  current  new  and  strange  ; 
The  water  that  was  here  is  gone, 
But  those  green  shadows  never  cliange. 

Serene  or  ruffled  by  the  storm, 
On  present  waves,  as  on  the  past, 
The  mirrored  grove  retains  its  form, 
The  self-same  trees  their  semblance  cast. 

The  hue  each  fleeting  globule  wears, 
That  drop  bequeaths  it  to  the  next ; 
One  picture  still  the  surface  bears, 
To  illustrate  the  murmured  text. 


t 


178  to . 

So,  love,  however  time  may  flow, 
Fresh  hours  pursuing  those  that  flee, 
One  constant  image  still  shall  show 
My  tide  of  life  is  true  to  thee. 


TO 


I  love  thee  —  I  love  thee  ! 

Tis  all  that  I  can  say ;  — 
It  is  my  vision  in  the  night, 

My  dreaming  in  the  day ; 
The  very  echo  of  my  heart, 


The  blessiner  when  I 


D 


pray : 


I  love  thee  —  I  love  thee  ! 
Is  all  that  I  can  say. 

I  love  thee  —  I  love  thee ! 

Is  ever  on  my  tongue  ; 
In  all  my  proudest  poesy 

That  chorus  still  is  sung ; 
It  is  the  verdict  of  my  eyes,  , 

Amidst  the  guy  and  young : 
I  love  thee  —  I  love  thee  ! 

A  thousand  maids  among. 

I  love  thee  —  I  love  thee  ! 

Thy  bright  and  hazel  glance, 
The  mellow  lute  upon  those  lips, 

Whose  tender  tones  entrance  : 
But  most,  dear  heart  of  hearts,  thy  proofs 

That  still  these  words  enhance, 
I  love  thee  —  I  love  thee  ! 

Whatever  be  thy  chance. 


TO    .  SERENADE.  J7J) 


TO 


Let  us  make  a  leap,  my  dear, 
In  our  love  of  man}-  a  year, 
And  date  it  very  far  away, 
On  a  bright  clear  summer  day, 
"When  the  heart  was  like  a  sun 
To  itself,  and  falsehood  none  ; 
And  the  rosy  lips  a  part 
Of  the  very  loving  heart, 
And  the  shining  of  the  eye 
But  a  sign  to  know  it  by  ;  — 
"When  my  faults  were  all  forgiven, 
And  my  life  deserved  of  Heaven. 
Dearest,  let  us  reckon  so, 
And  love  for  all  that  long  ago ; 
Each  absence  count  a  year  complete, 
And  keep  a  birthday  when  we  meet. 


SERENADE. 


An,  sweet,  thou  little  knowest  how 

I  wake  and  passionate  watches  keep; 
And  yet,  while  I  address  thee  now, 

Methinks  thou  smilest  in  thy  sleep. 
'Tis  sweet  enough  to  make  me  weep, 

That  tender  thought  of  love  and  thee, 
That  while  the  world  is  hushed  so  deep, 

Thy  soul's  perhaps  awake  to  me  ! 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on,  sweet  bride  of  sleep  ! 
With  golden  visions  for  thy  dower, 


1  80  BALLAD.  —  SONNETS. 

While  I  this  midnight  vigil  keep, 
And  bless  thee  in  thy  silent  bower ; 

To  me  'tis  sweeter  than  the  power 
Of  sleep,  and  fairy  dreams  unfurled, 

That  I  alone,  at  this  still  hour, 

In  patient  love  outwatch  the  world. 


BALLAD. 


It  was  not  in  the  winter 
Our  loving  lot  was  cast ; 
It  was  the  time  of  roses,  — 
"We  plucked  them  as  we  passed ! 

That  churlish  season  never  frowned 
On  early  lovers  yet ! 
O,  no  —  the  world  was  newly  crowned 
With  flowers  when  first  we  met. 

'Twas  twilight,  and  I  bade  you  go, 
But  still  you  held  me  fast ; 
It  was  the  time  of  roses,  — 
We  plucked  them  as  we  passed  ! 


SONNETS. 

TO    THE    OCEAN. 


SriALL  I  rebuke  thee,  Ocean,  my  old  love, 
That  once  in  rage,  with  the  wild  winds  at  strife, 
Thou  darest  menace  my  unit  of  a  life, 
Sending  my  clay  below,  my  soul  above, 


SONNETS.  181 

Whilst  roared  thy  waves,  like  lions  -when  they  rove 
By  night,  and  bound  upon  their  prey  by  stealth  ? 
Yet  didst  thou  ne'er  restore  my  fainting  health  ?  — 
Didst  thou  ne'er  murmur  gently  like  the  dove  ? 
Nay,  didst  thou  not  against  my  own  dear  shore 
Full  break,  last  link  between  my  land  and  me  ?  — 
My  absent  friends  talk  in  thy  very  roar, 
In  thy  waves'  beat  their  kindly  pulse  I  see, 
And  if  I  must  not  see  my  England  more, 
Next  to  her  soil,  my  grave  be  found  in  thee ! 

Coblentz,  May,  1835. 


LEAR. 


A  I>OOR  old  king,  with  sorrow  for  my  crown, 
Throned  upon  straw,  and  mantled  with  the  wind  — 
For  pity,  my  own  tears  have  made  me  blind, 
That  I  might  never  see  my  children's  frown  ; 
And  may  be  madness,  like  a  friend,  has  thrown 
A  folded  fdlet  over  my  dark  mind, 
So  that  unkindly  speech  may  sound  for  kind,  — 
Albeit  I  know  not.  —  I  am  childish  grown  — 
And  have  not  gold  to  purchase  wit  withal  — 
I  that  have  once  maintained  most  royal  state  — 
A  very  bankrupt  now,  that  may  not  call 
My  child,  my  child —  all-beggared  s;i\e  in  tears, 
Wherewith  I  daily  weep  an  old  man's  late, 
Foolish  —  and  blind  —  and  overcome  with  years  ! 


SONNET   TO    A    SONNET. 


Hare  composition  of  a  poet-knight. 
Most  chivalrous  amongst  chivalric  men, 
16 


182  SONNETS. 

Distinguished  for  a  polished  lance  and  pen 
In  tuneful  contest  and  in  tourney-fight ; 
Lustrous  in  scholarship,  in  honor  bright, 
Accomplished  in  all  graces  current  then, 
Humane  as  any  in  historic  ken, 
Brave,  handsome,  noble,  affable,  polite ; 
Most  courteous  to  that  race  become  of  late 
So  fiercely  scornful  of  all  kind  advance, 
Rude,  bitter,  coarse,  implacable  in  hate 
To  Albion,  plotting  ever  her  mischance,  — 
Alas,  fair  verse  !  how  false  and  out  of  date 
Thy  phrase  "  sweet  enemy  "  applied  to  France ! 


FALSE    POETS    AND    TRUE. 


Look  how  the  lark  soars  upward  and  is  gone, 

Turning  a  spirit  as  he  nears  the  sky ! 

His  voice  is  heard,  but  body  there  is  none 

To  fix  the  vague  excursions  of  the  eye. 

So,  poets'  songs  are  with  us,  though  they  die 

Obscured  and  hid  by  Death's  oblivious  shroud, 

And  earth  inherits  the  rich  melody, 

Like  raining  music  from  the  morning  cloud. 

Yet,  few  there  be  who  pipe  so  sweet  and  loud, 

Their  voices  reach  us  through  the  lapse  of  space: 

The  noisy  day  is  deafened  by  a  crowd 

Of  undistinguished  birds,  a  twittering  race  ; 

But  only  lark  and  nightingale  forlorn 

Fill  up  the  silences  of  night  and  morn. 


TO 


My  heart  is  sick  with  longing,  though  I  feed 
On  hope ;  Time  goes  with  such  a  heavy  pace 


SONNETS.  Jg3 

That  neither  brings  nor  takes  from  thy  embrace, 

As  if  he  slept  —  forgetting  his  old  speed  : 

For,  as  in  sunshine  only  we  can  read 

The  march  of  minutes  on  the  dial's  face, 

So  in  the  shadows  of  this  lonely  place 

There  is  no  love,  and  time  is  dead  indeed. 

But  when,  dear  lady,  I  am  near  thy  heart, 

Thy  smile  is  time,  and  then  so  swift  it  flies, 

It  seems  we  only  meet  to  tear  apart 

With  aching  hands  and  lingering  of  eyes. 

Alas,  alas !  that  we  must  learn  hours'  flight 

By  the  same  light  of  love  that  makes  them  bright ! 


FOR    THE    FOURTEENTH    OF   FEBRUARY. 

No  popular  respect  will  I  omit 

To  do  the  honor  on  this  happy  day, 

When  every  loyal  lover  tasks  his  wit 

His  simple  truth  in  studious  rhymes  to  pay, 

And  to  his  mistress  dear  his  hopes  convey. 

Bather  thou  knowest  I  would  still  outrun 

All  calendars  with  Love's,  —  whose  date  alway 

Thy  bright  eyes  govern  better  than  the  sun,  — 

For  with  thy  favor  was  my  life  begun ; 

And  still  I  reckon  on  from  smiles  to  smiles, 

And  not  by  summers,  for  I  thrive  on  none 

But  those  thy  cheerful  countenance  compiles: 

O !  if  it  be  to  choose  and  call  thee  mine, 

Love,  thou  art  every  day  my  Valentine. 


TO    A    SLEEPING    CHILD. 


O,  'TIS  a  touching  thing,  to  make  one  weep, 
A  tender  infant  with  its  curtained  eye, 


184 


SONNETS. 


Breathing  as  it  would  neither  live  nor  die 
With  that  unchanging  countenance  of  sleep ! 
As  if  its  silent  dream,  serene  and  deep, 
Had  lined  its  slumber  with  a  still  blue  sky, 
So  that  the  passive  cheeks  unconscious  lie, 
With  no  more  life  than  roses  — just  to  keep 
The  blushes  warm,  and  the  mild,  odorous  breath. 
O  blossom  boy !  so  calm  is  thy  repose, 
So  sweet  a  compromise  of  life  and  death, 
Tis  pity  those  fair  buds  should  e'er  unclose 
For  memory  to  stain  their  inward  leaf, 
Tinging  thy  dreams  with  unacquainted  grief. 


The  world  is  with  me,  and  its  many  cares, 

Its  woes  —  its  wants  — the  anxious  hopes  and  fears 

That  wait  on  all  terrestrial  affairs  — 

The  shades  of  former  and  of  future  years  — 

Foreboding  fancies  and  prophetic  tears, 

n  lelling  a  spirit  that  was  once  elate. 

Heavens !  what  a  wilderness  the  world  appears, 

Where  youth,  and  mirth,  and  health  are  out  of  date  ; 

But  no  —  a  laugh  of  innocence  and  joy 

Resounds,  like  music  of  the  fairy  race, 

And,  gladly  turning  from  the  world's  annoy, 

I  gaze  upon  a  little  radiant  face, 

And  bless,  internally,  the  merry  boy 

Who  "  makes  a  son-shine  in  a  shady  place." 


HUMOROUS   POEMS. 

16  *  (185) 


HUMOROUS    POEMS. 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG. 

A  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 

"What  is  here? 
Gold?  yellow,  glittering,  precious  gold?" 

Timon  of  Athens. 

ficr  |UbigrEf. 

To  trace  the  Kilmansegg  pedigree, 
To  the  very  roots  of  the  family  tree, 

Were  a  task  as  rash  as  ridiculous : 
Through  antediluvian  mists  as  thick 
As  a  London  fog  such  a  line  to  pick 
Were  enough,  in  truth,  to  puzzle  Old  Nick, 

Not  to  name  Sir  Harris  Nicholas. 

It  wouldn't  require  much  verbal  strain 
To  trace  the  Kill-man,  perchance,  to  Cain; 

But,  waiving  all  such  digressions, 
Suffice  it,  according  to  family  lore, 
A  Patriarch  Kilmansegg  lived  of  yore, 

Who  was  famed  for  his  great  possessions. 

Tradition  said  he  feathered  his  nest 
Through  an  agricultural  interest 
In  the  golden  age  of  fanning; 
When  golden  eggs  were  laid  by  the  geese, 
And  Colchian  sheep  wore  a  golden  fleece, 

(1ST) 


Jgg  MISS    KILMANSEGG 

And  golden  pippins  —  the  sterling  kind 

Of  Hesperus  —  now  so  hard  to  find  — 

Made  horticulture  quite  charming ! 


-I 


A  lord  of  land,  on  his  own  estate 
He  lived  at  a  very  lively  rate, 

But  his  income  would  hear  carousing ; 
Such  acres  he  had  of  pasture  and  heath, 
With  herbage  so  rich  from  the  ore  beneath, 
The  very  ewe's  and  lambkin's  teeth 

Were  turned  into  gold  by  browsing. 

He  gave,  without  any  extra  thrift, 
A  flock  of  sheep  for  a  birthday  gift 

To  each  son  of  his  loins,  or  daughter  : 
And  his  debts  —  if  debts  he  had  —  at  will 
He  liquidated  by  giving  each  bill 

A  dip  in  Pactolian  water. 

Twas  said  that  even  his  pigs  of  lead, 
By  crossing  with  some  by  Midas  bred, 

Made  a  perfect  mine  of  his  piggery. 
And  as  for  cattle,  one  yearling  bull 
Was  worth  all  Smithfield-market  full 

Of  the  golden  bulls  of  Pope  Gregory. 

The  high-bred  horses  within  his  stud, 
Like  human  creatures  of  birth  and  blood, 

Had  their  golden  cups  and  flagons  : 
And  as  for  the  common  husbandry  nags, 
Their  noses  were  tied  in  money-bags, 

When  they  stopped  with  the  carts  and  wagons. 

Moreover,  he  had  a  golden  ass, 
Sometimes  at  stall,  and  sometimes  at  grass, 
That  was  worth  his  own  weight  in  money  — 


AND    HER    PRECIOUS    LEG.  18$ 

And  a  golden  hive,  on  a  golden  bank, 
Where  golden  bees,  by  alchemical  prank, 
Gathered  gold  instead  of  honey. 

Gold  !  and  gold  !  and  gold  without  end  ! 
He  had  gold  to  lay  by,  and  gold  to  spend, 
Gold  to  give,  and  gold  to  lend, 

And  reversions  of  gold  in  futuro. 
In  wealth  the  family  revelled  and  rolled, 
Himself  and  wife  and  sons  so  bold  ;  — 
And  his  daughters  sung  to  their  harps  of  gold 

"  O  bella  eta  del'  oro !  " 

Such  was  the  tale  of  the  Kilmansegg  kin 

In  golden  text  on  a  vellum  skin, 

Though  certain  people  would  wink  and  grin. 

And  declare  the  whole  story  a  parable  — 
That  the  ancestor  rich  was  one  Jacob  Ghrimes, 
Who  held  a  long  lease,  in  prosperous  times, 

Of  acres,  pasture  and  arable. 

That  as  money  makes  money,  his  golden  bees 
Were  the  Five  per  Cents,  or  which  you  please, 

When  his  cash  was  more  than  plenty  — 
That  the  golden  cups  were  racing  affairs ; 
And  his  daughters,  who  sung  Italian  airs, 

Had  their  golden  harps  of  Clementi. 

That  the  golden  ass,  or  golden  bull, 
Was  English  John,  with  his  pockets  full, 

Then  at  war  by  land  and  water: 
While  beef,  and  mutton,  and  other  meat, 
Were  almost  as  dear  as  money  to  eat, 
And  farmers  reaped  golden  harvests  of  wheat 

At  the  Lord  knows  what  per  quarter ! 


"e 


190  MISS    KU.MANSEGG 

f)cr    tUvtb. 
What  different  dooms  our  birthdays  brine: ! 

i 

For  instance,  one  little  manikin  thing 
Survives  to  wear  many  a  wrinkle  ; 
While  death  forbids  another  to  wake, 
And  a  son  that  it  took  nine  moons  to  make 
Expires  without  even  a  twinkle : 

Into  this  world  we  come  like  ships. 

Launched  from  the  docks,  and  stocks,  and  slins. 

For  fortune  fair  or  fatal ; 
And  one  little  craft  is  cast  away 
In  its  very  first  trip  in  Bahbicome  Bay, 

While  another  rides  safe  at  Port  Natal. 

What  different  lots  our  stars  accord ! 

This  babe  to  be  hailed  and  wooed  as  a  lord ! 

And  that  to  be  shunned  like  a  leper ! 
One,  to  the  world's  wine,  honey,  and  corn, 
Another,  like  Colchester  native,  born 

To  its  vinegar,  only,  and  pepper. 

One  is  littered  under  a  roof 
Neither  wind  nor  water  proof,  — 

That's  the  prose  of  Love  in  a  cottage,  — 
A  puny,  naked,  shivering  wretch, 
The  whole  of  whose  birthright  would  not  fetr'j\, 
Though  Rollins  himself  drew  up  the  sketch, 

The  bid  of  "  a  mess  of  pottage." 

Born  of  Fortunatus's  kin, 
Another  comes  tenderly  ushered  in 

To  a  prospect  all  bright  and  burnished  : 
No  tenant  he  for  life's  back  slums  — 
He  comes  to  the  world  as  a  gentleman  comes 

To  a  lodging  ready  furnished. 


AND    HER    PRECIOUS    LEG.  191 

And  the  other  sex  —  the  tender  —  the  fair  — 

What  wide  reverses  of  fate  are  there ! 

Whilst  Margaret,  charmed  by  the  liulbul  rare, 

In  a  garden  of  Gul  reposes, 
Poor  Peggy  hawks  nosegays  from  street  to  street 
Till  —  think  of  that,  who  find  life  so  sweet !  — 

She  hates  the  smell  of  roses  ! 

Not  so  with  the  infant  Kilmansegg  ! 
She  was  not  born  to  steal  or  beg, 

Or  gather  cresses  in  ditches  ; 
To  plait  the  straw,  or  bind  the  shoe, 
Or  sit  all  day  to  hem  and  sew, 
As  females  must,  and  not  a  few  — 

To  fill  their  insides  with  stitches ! 

She  was  not  doomed,  for  bread  to  eat, 

To  be  put  to  her  hands  as  well  as  her  feet  — 

To  carry  home  linen  from  mangles  — 
Or  heavy-hearted,  and  weary-limbed, 
To  dance  on  a  rope  in  a  jacket  trimmed 

With  as  many  blows  as  spangles. 

She  was  one  of  those  who  by  Fortune's  boon 
Are  born,  as  they  say,  with  a  silver  spoon 

In  her  mouth,  not  a  wooden  ladle  : 
To  speak  according  to  poet's  wont, 
Plutus  as  sponsor  stood  at  her  font, 

And  Midas  rocked  the  cradle. 

At  her  first  debut  she  found  her  head 
On  a  pillow  of  down,  in  a  downy  bod, 

With  a  damask  canopy  over. 
For  although  by  the  vulgar  popular  saw 
All  mothers  arc  said  to  be  "in  the  straw," 

Some  children  are  born  in  clover. 


192 


MISS    KILMANSKGQ 


Her  very  first  draught  of  vital  air 
It  was  not  the  common  chameleon  fare 
Of  plebeian  lungs  and  noses,  — 
No  —  her  earliest  sniff 
Of  this  world  was  a  whiff 
Of  the  genuine  Otto  of  Hoses ! 

When  she  saw  the  light,  it  was  no  mere  ray 
Of  that  light  so  common,  so  every-day, 

That  the  sun  each  morning  launches  ; 
But  six  wax  tapers  dazzled  her  eyes, 
From  a  thing  —  a  gooseberry-bush  for  size  — 

With  a  golden  stem  and  branches. 

She  was  born  exactly  at  half-past  two, 
As  witnessed  a  time-piece  in  or-molu 

That  stood  on  a  marble  table  — 
Showing  at  once  the  time  of  day, 
And  a  team  of  Gildings  running  away 

As  fast  as  they  were  able, 
With  a  golden  god,  with  a  golden  star, 
And  a  golden  spear,  in  a  golden  car, 

According  to  Grecian  fable. 

Like  other  babes,  at  her  birth  she  cried  ; 
Which  made  a  sensation  far  and  wide, 

Ay,  for  twenty  miles  around  her  ; 
For  though  to  the  ear  'twas  nothing  more 
Than  an  infant's  squall,  it  was  really  the  roar 
Of  a  fifty-thousand  pounder  ! 
It  shook  the  next  heir 
In  his  library  chair, 
And  made  him  cry  "  Confound  her  !  " 

Of  signs  and  omens  there  was  no  dearth, 
Any  more  than  at  Owen  Glcndower's  birth, 


AND    HER    PRECIOUS    LEG.  J  93 

Or  the  advent  of  other  great  people  : 
Two  bullocks  dropped  dead, 
As  if  knocked  on  the  head, 
And  barrels  of  stout 
And  ale  ran  about, 
And  the  village-bells  such  a  peal  rang  out 
That  they  cracked  the  village  steeple. 

In  no  time  at  all,  like  mushroom  spawn, 
Tables  sprang  up  all  over  the  lawn  ; 
Not  furnished  scantily  or  shabbily, 
But  on  scale  as  vast 
As  that  huge  repast, 
"With  its  loads  and  cargoes 
Of  drink  and  botargoes, 
At  the  birth  of  the  babe  in  Rabelais. 

Hundreds  of  men  were  turned  into  beasts, 
Like  the  guests  at  Circe's  horrible  feasts, 

By  the  magic  of  ale  and  cider  : 
And  each  country  lass,  and  each  country  lad, 
Began  to  caper  and  dance  like  mad. 
And  even  some  old  ones  appeared  to  have  had 

A  bite  from  the  Naples  spider. 

Then  as  night  came  on, 

It  had  scared  King  John, 
Who  considered  such  signs  not  risible, 

To  have  seen  the  maroons, 

And  the  whirling  moons, 

And  the  serpents  of  flame, 

And  wheels  of  the  same. 
That  according  to  some  were  "  whizzable." 

O,  happy  Hope  of  the  Kilmanseg»s ! 
Thrice  happy  in  head,  and  body,  and  legs, 

17 


194  MISS    KILMANSEG& 

That  her  parents  had  such  full  pockets ! 
For  had  she  been  born  of  want  and  thrift, 
For  care  and  nursing  all  adrift, 
It's  ten  to  one  she  had  had  to  make  shift 

With  rickets  instead  of  rockets! 

And  how  was  the  precious  baby  drest  ? 
In  a  robe  of  the  East,  with  lace  of  the  West^ 
Like  one  of  Croesus's  issue  — 

CHer  best  bibs  were  made 
'  Of  rich  gold  brocade, 
And  the  others  of  silver  tissue. 

And  when  the  baby  inclined  to  nap 
She  was  lulled  on  a  Gros  de  Naples  lap, 
By  a  nurse  in  a  modish  Paris  cap, 

Of  notions  so  exalted, 
She  drank  nothing  lower  than  Curacoa, 
Maraschino,  or  pink  Noyau, 
And  on  principle  never  malted. 

From  a  golden  boat,  with  a  golden  spoon, 
The  babe  was  fed  night,  morning,  and  noon; 

And,  although  the  tale  seems  fabulous, 
Tis  said  her  tops  and  bottoms  were  gilt, 
Like  the  oats  in  that  stable-yard  palace  buill 

For  the  horse  of  HeKogabalus. 

And  when  she  took  to  squall  and  kick  — 
For  pain  will  wring  and  pins  will  prick 
E'en  the  wealthiest  nabob's  daughter  — 
They  gave  her  no  vulgar  Dalby  or  gin, 
But  a  liquor  with  leaf  of  gold  therein, 
Videlicet,  —  Dantzic  Water. 

In  short,  she  was  born,  and  bred,  and  nurst, 
And  ditst  in  the  best  from  the  very  first, 
To  please  the  genteelest  censor  — 


AND    HER    PRECIOUS    LEG.  195 

And  then,  as  soon  as  strength  would  allow, 
Was  vaccinated,  as  babes  are  now, 
With  virus  ta'en  from  the  best-bred  cow 
Of  Lord  Altiiorpe's  —  now  Earl  Spencer. 

f)cr   Christening. 
Though  Shakspeare  asks  us  "  What's  in  a  name  ?  " 
(As  if  cognomens  were  much  the  same,) 
There's  really  a  very  great  scope  in  it. 
A  name  ?  —  why,  wasn't  there  Doctor  Dodd, 
That  servant  at  once  of  Mammon  and  God, 
.  Who  found  four  thousand  pounds  and  odd, 
A  prison  —  a  cart  — -  and  a  rope  in  it  ? 

A  name  ?  —  if  the  party  had  a  voice, 
What  mortal  would  be  a  Bugg  by  choice  ? 
As  a  Hogg,  a  Grubb,  or  a  Chubb  rejoice  ? 

Or  any  such  nauseous  blazon  ? 
Not  to  mention  many  a  vulgar  name, 
That  would  make  a  door-plate  blush  for  shame, 
If  door-plates  were  not  so  brazen ! 

A  name  ?  —  it  has  more  than  nominal  worth, 
And  belongs  to  good  or  bad  luck  at  birth  — 

As  dames  of  a  certain  degree  know. 
In  spite  of  his  page's  hat  and  hose, 
His  page's  jacket,  and  buttons  in  rows, 
Bob  only  sounds  like  a  page  of  prose 

Till  turned  into  Rupertino. 

Now,  to  christen  the  infant  Kilmansegg, 
For  days  and  days  it  was  quite  a  plague, 

To  hunt  the  list  in  the  lexicon  : 
And  scores  were  tried,  like  coin,  by  the  ring, 
Ere  names  were  found  just  the  proper  thing, 

For  a  minor  rich  as  a  Mexican. 


UK',  Ml--    KILMANSEGG 

Then  curds  were  sent,  the  presence  to  beg 
Of  all  the  kin  of  Kilmansegg, 

White,  yellow,  and  brown  relations: 
Brothers,  wardens  of  city  halls, 

And  uncles,  rich  as  three  golden  balls 
From  taking  pledges  of  nations. 

Nephews,  whom  Fortune  seemed  to  bewitch, 

Rising  in  life  like  rockets  — 
Nieces  whose  doweries  knew  no  hitch  — 
Aunts  as  certain  of  dying  rich 

As  candles  in  golden  sockets  — 
Cousins  German,  and  cousins'  sons, 
All  thriving  and  opulent  —  some  had  tons 

Of  Kentish  hops  in  their  pockets  ! 

For  money  had  stuck  to  the  race  through  life 
(As  it  did  to  the  bushel  when  cash  so  rife 
Posed  Ali-Baba's  brother's  wife  )  — 

And,  down  to  the  cousins  and  coz-lings 
The  fortunate  brood  of  the  Kihnanseggs, 
As  if  they  had  come  out  of  golden  eggs, 

Were  all  as  wealthy  as  "goslings." 

It  would  fill  a  Court  Gazette  to  name 
What  cast  and  west  end  people  came 

To  the  rite  of  Christianity  ; 
The  lofty  lord  and  the  tilled  dame, 

All  diamonds,  pinnies,  and  urbanity  ; 
The  Lordship,  the  Mayor,  with  his  golden  chain, 
And  two  Gold  Sticks,  and  the  sheriffs  twain, 
Nine  foreign  counts,  and  other  great  men 
With  their  orders  or  stars,  to  help  M  or  N 

To  renounce  all  pomp  and  vanity. 

To  paint  the  maternal  Kilmansegg 
The  pen  of  an  Eastern  poet  would  beg, 


AND    HEK    PRECIOUS    LEG.  197 

And  need  no  elaborate  sonnet; 
How  she  sparkled  with  gems  whenever  she  stirred, 
And  her  head  niddle-noddled  at  every  word, 
And  seemed  so  happy,  a  paradise  bird 

Had  nidificated  upon  it. 

And  Sir  Jacob  the  father  strutted  and  bowed, 
And  smiled  to  himself,  and  laughed  aloud, 

To  think  of  his  heiress  and  daughter  — 
And  then  in  his  pockets  he  made  a  grope, 
And  then,  in  the  fulness  of  joy  and  hope, 
Seemed  washing  his  hands  with  invisible  soap 

In  imperceptible  water. 

He  had  rolled  in  money  like  pigs  in  mud, 
Till  it  seemed  to  have  entered  into  his  blood 

By  some  occult  projection  ; 
And  his  cheeks,  instead  of  a  healthy  hue, 
As  yellow  as  any  guinea  grew, 
Making  the  common  phrase  seem  true 

About  a  rich  complexion. 

And  now  came  the  nurse,  and  during  a  pause^ 
Her  dead-leaf  satin  would  fitly  cause 

A  very  autumnal  rustle  — 
So  full  of  figure,  so  full  of  fuss, 
As  she  carried  about  the  babe  to  buss, 

She  seemed  to  be  nothing  but  bustle. 

A  wealthy  Nabob  was  godpapa, 

And  an  Indian  Begum  was  godmamma, 

Whose  jewels  a  queen  might  covet; 
And  the  priest  was  a  vicar,  and  dean  withal 
Of  that  temple  we  see  with  a  golden  ball, 

And  a  golden  cross  above  it. 
17* 


108  MISS    KILMAN8EQG 

The  font  was  a  bowl  of  American  gold, 
Won  by  Raleigh  in  days  of  old, 

In  spite  of  Spanish  bravado; 
And  the  book  of  prayer  was  so  overrun 
With  gilt  devices,  it  shone  in  the  sun 
IJke  a  copy  —  a  presentation  one  >- 

Of  Humboldt's  "El  Dorado." 

Gold  !  ami  gold  !  and  nothing  but  gold  ! 
The  same  auriferous  shine  behold 

Wherever  the  eye  could  settle ! 
On  the  walls —  the  sideboard  —  the  ceiling-sky- 
On  the  gorgeous  footmen  standing  by, 
In  coats  to  delight  a  miner's  eye 

With  seams  of  the  precious  metal. 

Gold  !  and  gold  !  and  besides  the  gold, 
The  very  robe  of  the  infant  told 
A  tale  of  wealth  in  every  fold, 

It  lapped  her  like  a  vapor! 
So  fine!  so  thin  !  the  mind  at  a  loss 
Could  compare  it  to  nothing  except  a  cross 

Of  cobweb  with  bank-note  paper. 

Then  her  pearls— 'twas  a  perfect  sight,  forsooth, 
To  see  them,  like  "  the  dew  of  her  youth," 

In  such  a  plentiful  sprinkle. 
Meanwhile,  the  vicar  read  through  the  form, 
And  gave  her  another,  not  overwarm, 

That  made  her  little  eyes  twinkle. 

Then  the  babe  was  crossed  and  blessed  amain; 
But  instead  of  the  Kate,  or  Ann,  or  Jane, 

Which  the  humbler  female  endorses  — 
Instead  of  one  name,  as  some  people  prefix, 
Kilman8egg  went  at  the  tails  of  six, 

Like  a  carnage  of  state  with  its  horses. 


'i 


AND    HER    TRECIOUS    LEG.  199 

O  !  then  the  kisses  she  got  and  hugs  ! 
The  golden  mugs  and  the  golden  jugs, 

That  lent  fresh  rays  to  the  midges ! 
The  golden  knives  and  the  golden  spoons, 
The  gems  that  sparkled  like  fairy  boons, 
It  was  one  of  the  Kilmansegg's  own  saloons, 

But  looked  like  Rundell  and  Bridge's ! 

Gold  !  and  gold  !  the  new  and  the  old  ! 
The  company  ate  and  drank  from  gold, 

They  revelled,  they  sang,  and  were  merry ; 
And  one  of  the  Gold  Sticks  rose  from  his  chair 
And  toasted  "  the  lass  with  the  golden  hah- " 

In  a  bumper  of  golden  sherry. 

Gold  !  still  gold  !  it  rained  on  the  nurse, 
Who,  unlike  Dan'ae,  was  none  the  worse ; 
There  was  nothing  but  guineas  glistening ! 
Fifty  were  given  to  Doctor  James, 
For  calling  the  little  baby  names  ; 
And  for  saying  Amen  ! 
The  clerk  had  ten, 
And  that  was  the  end  of  the  Christening:, 


O' 


§n  (Tbllbboob. 

Our  youth!  our  childhood  !  that  spring  of  springs! 
"lis  surely  one  of  the  blessedest  things 

That  nature  ever  invented  ! 
When  the  rich  arc  wealthy  beyond  their  wealth, 
And  the  poor  are  rich  in  spirits  and  health, 

And  all  with  their  lots  contented! 

There's  little  Phelim,  he  sings  like  a  thrush, 
In  t!i"  self-same  pair  of  patchwork  plush, 
With  the  self-same  empty  pockets, 


200  MISS    KII.MANSKGO 

That  tempted  his  daddy  so  often  to  cut 
His  throat,  or  jump  in  the  water-butt  — 
But  what  cares  Phelim  ?  an  empty  nut 
Would  sooner  bring  i   ar    to  their  socket*. 

Give  him  a  collar  without  a  skirt, — 

That's  the  Irish  linen  for  shirt ; 

And  a  slice  of  bread,  with  a  taste  of  dirt,  — ' 

That's  poverty's  Irish  butter  ; 
And  what  does  he  lack  to  make  him  blest? 
Some  oyster-shells,  or  a  sparrow's  nest, 

A  candle-end  and  a  gutter. 


&■ 


But,  to  leave  the  happy  Phelim  alone, 
Gnawing,  perchance,  a  marrowless  bone, 

For  which  no  dog  would  quarrel  — 
Turn  we  to  little  Miss  Kilmansegg, 
Cutting  her  first  little  toothy-peg 
With  a  fifty  guinea  coral  — 
A  peg  upon  which 
About  poor  and  rich 
Reflection  might  hang  a  moral. 

Bom  in  wealth,  and  wealthily  nursed. 

Capped,  pupped,  napped,  and  lapped  from  \h     first 

On  the  knees  of  Prodigality, 
Her  childhood  was  one  eternal  round 
Of  the  game  of  going  on  Tickler's  ground, 

Picking  up  gold  —  in  reality. 

With  extempore  carts  she  never  played, 
Or  the  odds  and  ends  of  a  Tinker's  trade, 
Or  little  dirt  pies  and  puddings  made, 

Like  children  happy  and  squalid  ; 
The  very  puppet  she  had  to  pet, 
Like  a  bait  for  the  "Nix  my  Dolly"  set, 

Was  a  dolly  of  gold  —  and  solid! 


AND    HER   PRECIOUS    I  EG.  201 

Gold  !  and  gold !  'twas  the  burden  still ! 
To  gain  the  heiress's  early  good  will 

There  was  much  corruption  and  bribery ; 
The  yearly  cost  of  her  golden  toys 
Would  have  given  half  Loudon's  charity-boys 
And  charity-girls  the  annual  joys 

Of  a  holiday  dinner  at  Highbury. 

Bon-bons  she  ate  from  the  gilt  cornet ; 
And  gilded  queens  on  St.  Bartlemy's  day; 

Till  her  fancy  was  tinged  by  her  presents  — 
And  first  a  goldfinch  excited  her  wish, 
Then  a  spherical  bowl  with  its  golden  fish, 

And  then  two  golden  pheasants. 

Nay,  once  she  squalled  and  screamed  like  wild  — 
And  it  shows  how  the  bias  we  give  to  a  child 

Is  a  thing  most  weighty  and  solemn  :  — 
But  whence  was  wonder  or  blame  to  spring 
If  little  Miss  K.  — after  such  a  swing  — 
Made  a  dust  for  the  flaming  gilded  thing 

On  the  top  of  the  Fish-street  column  ? 

*!)cr  (tradition. 

According  to  metaphysical  creed, 

To  the  earliest  hooks  that  children  read 

For  much  good  or  much  bad  they  are  debtors  — 
But  before  with  their  ABC  they  start, 
There  are  things  in  morals,  as  well  as  art, 
That  play  a  very  important  part  — 

i:  Impressions  before  the  letters.'' 

Dame  Education  begins  the  pile, 
Mayhap  in  the  graceful  Corinthian  style, 
But  alas  for  the  elevation  ! 


202  Miss    KILMAN8EGG 

If  the  lady's  maid  or  Gossip  tlic  nurse 
With  a  load  of  rubbish,  or  something  worse, 
Have  made  a  rotten  foundation. 

Even  thus  with  little  Miss  Kilmansegg, 
Before  she  learnt  her  E  for  egg, 

Ere  her  governess  came,  or  her  masters  — 
Teachers  of  quite  a  different  kind 
Had  "crammed  "  her  beforehand,  and  put  her  mind 

In  a  go-cart  on  golden  castors. 

Long  before  her  A  B  and  C, 

They  had  taught  her  by  heart  her  L.  S.  D. ; 

And  as  how  she  was  born  a  great  heiress ; 
And  as  sure  as  London  is  built  of  bricks, 
My  lord  would  ask  her  the  day  to  fix 
To  ride  in  a  fine  gilt  coach  and  six, 

J  -ike  Her  Worship  the  Lady  Mayoress. 

Instead  of  stories  from  Edgeworth's  page, 
The  true  golden  ore  for  our  golden  age, 

Or  lessons  from  Barbauld  and  Trimmer, 
Teaching  the  worth  of  virtue  and  health, 
AH  that  she  knew  was  the  virtue  of  wealth, 
Provided  by  vulgar  nursery  stealth, 

With  a  book  of  leaf-gold  for  a  primer. 

The  very  metal  of  merit  they  told, 

And  praised  her  for  being  as  "good  as  gold!" 

Till  she  grew  as  a  peacock  haughty; 
Of  money  they  talked  the  whole  day  round, 
And  weighed  desert  like  grapes  by  the  pound, 
Till  she  had  an  idea,  from  the  very  sound, 

That  people  with  naught  were  naughty. 

They  praised  —  poor  children  with  nothing  at  all! 
Lord!  how  you  twaddle  and  waddle  and  squall, 
Like  common-bred  geese  and  ganders.' 


AND    HER   PRECIOUS    LEG.  203 

What  sad  little  bad  figures  you  make 
To  the  rich  Miss  K  ,  whose  plainest  seed-cake 
Was  stuffed  with  corianders ! 

They  praised  her  falls,  as  well  as  her  walk, 

Flatterers  make  cream  cheese  of  chalk, 

They  praised  —  how  they  praised  —  her  very  small  talk, 

As  if  it  fell  from  a  Solon  ! 
Or  the  girl  who  at  each  pretty  phrase  let  drop 
A  ruby  comma,  or  pearl  full-stop, 

Or  an  emerald  semi-colon. 

They  praised  her  spirit,  and  now  and  then 
The  nurse  brought  her  own  little  "  nevy  "  Ben, 

To  play  with  the  future  mayoress  : 
And  when  he  got  raps,  and  taps,  and  slaps, 
Scratches  and  pinches,  snips  and  snaps, 

As  if  from  a  tigress,  or  bearess, 
They  told  him  how  lords  would  court  that  hand, 
And  always  gave  him  to  understand, 

While  he  rubbed,  poor  soul, 

His  carrotty  poll, 
That  his  hair  had  been  pulled  by  "  a  liairess." 

Such  were  the  lessons  from  maid  and  nurse, 
A  governess  helped  to  make  still  worse, 
Giving  an  appetite  so  perverse 

Fresh  diet  whereon  to  batten  — 
Beginning  with  A  B  C  to  hold 
Like  a  royal  playbill  printed  in  gold 

On  a  square  of  pearl-white  satin. 

The  books  to  teach  the  verbs  and  nouns, 
And  those  about  countries,  cities  and  towns, 
Instead  of  their  sober  drabs  and  browns, 

Were  in  crimson  silk,  with  gilt  edges  ;  — 
Her  Butler,  and  Enfield,  and  Entick  —  in  short, 


204:  MISS    KII.M.VXSEQO 

Her  "  early  lessons  "  of  every  sort, 
Looked  like  souvenirs,  keepsakes,  and  pledges. 

Old  Johnson  shone  out  in  as  fine  array 
As  he  did  one  night  when  he  went  to  the  play; 
Chambaud  like  a  beau  of  King  Charles's  day  — 
Lindley  .Murray  in  like  conditions; 

Eaeli  weary,  unwelcome,  irksome  task, 
Appeared  in  a  fancy  dress  and  a  mask  — 
If  you  wish  for  similar  copies,  ask 
For  Howell  and  James's  editions. 

Novels  she  read  to  amuse  her  mind, 

But  always  the  affluent  match-making  kind, 

That  ends  with  Fromessi  Sposi, 
And  a  father-in-law  so  wealthy  and  grand, 
He  could  give  check-mate  to  Coutts  in  the  Strand; 

So,  along  with  a  ring  and  posy, 
He  endows  the  bride  with  Golconda  off-hand, 

And  gives  the  groom  Potosi. 

Plays  she  perused  —  hut  she  liked  the  best 
Those  comedy  gentlefolks  always  possessed 

Of  fortunes  so  truly  romantic  — 
Of  money  so  ready  that  right  or  wrong 
It  always  is  ready  to  go  for  a  son-'. 
Throwing  it,  going  it,  pitching  it  strong  — 
They  ought  to  have  purses  as  green  and  long 

As  the  cucumber  called  the  Gigantic. 

Then  Eastern  tales  she  loved  for  the  sake 
Of  the  purse  of  Oriental  make, 

And  the  thousand  pieces  they  put  in  it ; 
But  pastoral  scenes  on  her  heart  fell  cold, 
For  Nature  with  her  had  lost  its  hold, 
No  held  hut  the  Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold 

Would  ever  have  caught  her  foot  in  it. 


AXD    HER    PRECIOUS    LEG.  20f) 

What  more  ?  She  learnt  to  sing  and  dance, 
To  sit  on  a  horse,  although  he  should  prance, 
And  to  speak  a  French  not  spoken  in  France 

Any  more  than  at  Babel's  building  ; 
And  she  painted  shells,  and  flowers,  and  Turks, 
But  her  great  delight  was  in  fancy  works 

That  are  done  with  gold  or  gilding. 

Gold  !  still  gold !  —  the  bright  and  the  dead, 
With  golden  beads,  and  gold  lace,  and  gold  thread. 
She  worked  in  gold,  as  if  for  her  bread  ; 

The  metal  had  so  undermined  her, 
Gold  ran  in  her  thoughts  and  filled  her  brain, 
She  was  golden-headed  as  Peter's  cane 

With  which  he  walked  behind  her. 

Tier  gucibent. 
The  horse  that  carried  Miss  Kilmanse<r<r, 
And  a  better  never  lifted  leg, 

Was  a  very  rich  bay,  called  Banker ; 
A  horse  of  a  breed  and  a  metal  so  rare,  — 
By  Bullion  out  of  an  Tngot  mare,  — 
That  for  action,  the  best  of  figures,  and  air, 

It  made  many  good  judges  hanker. 

And  when  she  took  a  ride  in  the  park, 
Equestrian  lord,  or  pedestrian  clerk, 

Was  thrown  in  an  amorous  fever, 
To  see  tin-  heiress,  how  well  she  s;:t, 
With  her  groom  behind  her,  Bob  or  Nat, 
in  green,  half  smothered  with  gold,  and  a  hat 

With  more  gold  lace  than  beaver. 

And  then  when  Banker  obtained  a  pat, 

To  see  how  he  arched  his  neck  at  that! 
lie  snorted  with  pride  and  pleasure! 
Like  the  steed  in  the  fable  so  lofty  and  grand, 


20G  MISS    KILMANSEGO 

Who  gave  the  poor  ass  to  understand 
That  he  didn't  cany  a  bag  of  sand, 
But  a  burden  of  golden  treasure. 

A  load  of  treasure  ?  —  alas  !  alas  ! 

Had  her  horse  but  been  fed  upon  EngJJjJf  £ra&v 

And  sheltered  in  Yorkshire  spinneys, 
Had  he  scoured  the  sand  with  the  desert  ass, 

Or  where  the  American  whinnies 

But  a  hunter  from  Erin's  turf  and  gorse, 
A  regular  thorough-bred  Irish  horse, 
Why,  he  ran  away,  as  a  matter  of  course, 

With  a  girl  worth  her  weight  in  guineas ! 

Mayhap  'tis  the  trick  of  such  pampered  nags 
To  shy  at  the  sight  of  a  beggar  in  rags, 

But  away,  like  the  bolt  of  a  rabbit, 
Away  went  the  horse  in  the  madness  of  fright, 
And  away  went  the  horsewoman  mocking  the  «W 
Was  yonder  blue  flash  a  flash  of  blue  light, 

Or  only  the  skirt  of  her  habit  ? 

Away  she  flies,  with  the  groom  behind,— 
It  looks  like  a  race  of  the  Cahnuck  kind, 

When  Hymen  himself  is  the  starter: 
And  the  maid  rides  first  in  the  four-footed  strife- 
Riding,  striding,  as  if  for  her  life, 
While  the  lover  rides  after  to  catch  him  a  wife, 

Although  it's  catching  a  Tartar. 

But  the  groom  has  lost  his  glittering  hat! 
Though  he  does  not  sigh  and  pull  up  for  that  — 
Alas!  his  horse  is  a  tit  for  tat 

To  sell  to  a  very  low  bidder  — 
His  wind  is  ruined,  his  shoulder  is  sprung; 
Things,  though  a  horse  be  handsome  und'young. 

A  purchaser  will  consider. 


AND    HER    PRECIOUS    LEG.  207 

But  still  flies  the  heiress  through  stones  and  dust ; 
O,  for  a  fall,  if  fall  she  must, 

On  the  gentle  lap  of  Flora! 
But  still,  thank  Heaven  !  she  chugs  to  her  seat  — 
Away!  away!  she  could  ride  a  dead  heat 
With  the  dead  who  ride  so  fast  and  fleet 

In  the  ballad  of  Leonora ! 

Away  she  gallops  !  —  it's  awful  work  ! 
It's  faster  than  Turpin's  ride  to  York, 

On  Bess,  that  notable  clipper ! 
She  has  circled  the  ring  !  —  she  crosses  the  park  I 
Mazeppa,  although  he  was  stripped  so  stark, 

Mazeppa  couldn't  outstrip  her  ! 

The  fields  seem  running  away  with  the  folks  ! 
The  elms  are  having  a  x-ace  for  the  oaks, 

At  a  pace  that  all  jockeys  disparages ! 
All,  all  is  racing  !  the  Serpentine 
Seems  rushing  past  like  the  "  arrowy  Rhine,'* 
The  houses  have  got  on  a  railway  line, 

And  are  off  like  the  first-class  carriages ! 

She'll  lose  her  life  !  she  is  losing  her  breath! 
A  cruel  chase,  she  is  chasing  Death, 

As  female  shriekings  forewarn  her : 
And  now — as  gratis  as  blood  of  Guelpli  — 
She  clears  that  gate,  which  lias  cleared  itself 

Since  then,  at  Hyde  Park  Comer .' 

Alas  !  for  the  hope  of  the  Kilmanseggs  ! 
i?or  her  head,  her  brains,  her  body,  and  legs, 
Her  life's  not  worth  a  copper ! 
Willy-nilly, 
In  Piccadilly, 
A  hundred  hearts  turn  siek  and  chilly, 
A  hundred  voices  cry,  "  Stop  her  ! " 


208  MISS    KII.MAXSEGG 

And  one  old  gentleman  stares  and  stands, 
Shakes  his  head  and  lifts  his  hands. 
And  says,  "How  very  improper!" 

On  and  on!  —  what  a  perilous  run! 
The  iron  mils  seem  all  mingling  in  one, 

To  shut  out  the  Green  Park  scenery ! 
And  now  the  cellar  its  dangers  reveals, 
She  shudders  —  she  shrieks  —  she's  doomed,  she  feels, 
To  be  torn  by  powers  of  horses  and  wheels, 

Like  a  spinner  by  steam  machinery ! 


•  t 


Sick  with  horror  she  shuts  her  eyes, 
But  the  very  stones  seem  uttering  cries, 

As  they  did  to  that  Persian  daughter, 
"When  she  climbed  up  the  steep  vociferous  hill, 
Her  little  silver  flagon  to  fill 

With  the  magical  golden  water ! 

"  Batter  her !  shatter  her ! 

Throw  and  scatter  her  !  " 
Shouts  each  stony-hearted  chatterer. 

"Dash  at  the  heavy  Dover! 
Spill  her  !  kill  her  !  tear  and  totter  her  ! 
Smash  her!  crash  her!"  (the  stones  didn't  flatter  her!) 
"  Kick  her  brains  out !  let  her  blood  spatter  her ! 

Itoll  on  her  over  and  over  ! " 

For  so  she  gathered  the  awful  sense 

Of  the  street  in  its  past  unmacadamized  tense, 

As  the  wild  horse  overran  it, — 
His  four  heels  making  the  clatter  of  six, 
Like  a  devil's  tattoo,  played  with  iron  sticks 

On  a  kettle-drum  of  granite  ! 

On!  still  on!  she's  dazzled  with  hints 
Of  oranges,  ribbons,  and  colored  prints, 


V 


AND    HER.    PRECIOUS    LEG.  209 

A  kaleidoscope  jumble  of  shapes  and  tints, 

And  human  faces  all  flashing, 
Bright  and  brief  as  the  sparks  from  the  flints 

That  the  desperate  hoof  keeps  dashing  ! 

On  and  on  !  still  frightfully  fast ! 

Dover-street,  Bond-street,  all  are  past ! 

But  —  yes  —  no  —  yes  !  —  they're  down  at  last ! 

The  Furies  and  Fates  have  found  them ! 
Down  they  go  with  a  sparkle  and  crash, 
Like  a  bark  that's  struck  by  the  lightning  flash  — 

There's  a  shriek  —  and  a  sob  — 

And  the  dense  dark  mob 
Like  a  billow  closes  around  them  ! 


"  She  breathes  !  " 
"  She  don't !  " 
"  She'll  recover  !  " 
"  She  won't ! " 
"She's  stirring!  she's  living,  by  Nemesis!" 
Gold,  still  gold!  on  counter  and  shelf! 
Golden  dishes  as  plenty  as  delf ! 
Miss  Kihnanscgg's  coining  again  to  herself 
On  an  opulent  goldsmith's  premises  ! 

Gold  !  fine  gold  !  —  both  yellow  and  red. 
Beaten,  and  molten  —  polished,  and  dead  — 
To  see  the  gold  with  profusion  spread 

In  all  forms  of  its  manufacture  ! 
But  what  avails  gold  to  Miss  Kilmansegg, 
"When  the  femoral  bone  of  her  dexter  leg 

Has  met  with  a  compound  fracture  ? 
18* 


210  MISS    KII.MAXSEGQ 

Gold  may  soothe  Adversity's  smart ; 
Nay,  help  to  bind  up  a  broken  heart; 
But  to  try  it  on  any  other  part 

Were  as  certain  a  disappointment, 
As  if  one  should  rub  the  dish  and  plate, 
Taken  out  of  a  Staffordshire  crate  — 
In  the  hope  of  a  golden  service  of  state  — 

With  Singleton's  "  Golden  Ointment." 

Tier    precious    3Ccg. 

"  As  the  twig  is  bent,  the  tree's  inclined," 
Is  an  adage  often  recalled  to  mind, 

Referring  to  juvenile  bias  : 
And  never  so  well  is  the  verity  seen, 
As  when  to  the  weak,  warped  side  we  lean, 

While  life's  tempests  and  hurricanes  try  us. 

Even  thus  with  Miss  K.  and  her  broken  limb, 
By  a  very,  very  remarkable  whim, 

She  showed  her  early  tuition  : 
While  the  buds  of  character  came  into  blow 
With  a  certain  tinge  that  served  to  show 
The  nursery  culture  long  ago, 

As  the  graft  is  known  by  fruition  ! 

For  the  king's  physician,  who  nursed  the  case, 
His  verdict  gave  with  an  awful  face, 

And  three  others  concurred  to  egg  it ; 
That  the  patient,  to  give  old  Death  the  slip, 
Like  the  Pope,  instead  of  a  personal  trip, 

Must  send  her  leg  as  a  legate. 

The  limb  was  doomed,  —  it  couldn't  be  saved, 
And  like  other  people  the  patient  behaved, 
Nay,  bravely  that  cruel  parting  braved, 


AND    HEH    TRECIOUS    LEO.  211 

Which  makes  some  persons  so  falter, 
They  rather  would  part,  without  a  groan, 
With  the  flesh  of  their  flesh,  and  bone  of  their  bone, 

They  obtained  at  St.  George's  altar. 

But  when  it  came  to  fitting  the  stump 
With  a  proxy  limb,  then  flatly  and  plump 

She  spoke,  in  the  spirit  olden ; 
She  couldn't,  she  shouldn't,  she  wouldn't  —  have  wood ! 
Nor  a  leg  of  cork,  if  she  never  stood, 
And  she  swore  an  oath,  or  something  as  good, 

The  proxy  limb  should  be  golden ! 

A  wooden  leg !  what,  a  sort  of  peg, 

For  your  common  Jockeys  and  Jennies  ! 

No,  no,  her  mother  might  worry  and  plague  — 

Weep,  go  down  on  her  knees,  and  beg, 

But  nothing  would  move  Miss  Kilmansegg  ! 

She  could  —  she  would  have  a  Golden  Leg, 
If  it  cost  ten  thousand  guineas  ! 

Wood  indeed,  in  forest  or  park, 

With  its  sylvan  honors  and  feudal  bark, 

Is  an  aristocratical  article  : 
But  split  and  sawn,  and  hacked  about  town, 
Serving  all  needs  of  pauper  or  clown, 
Trod  on!  staggered  on!     Wood  cut  down 

Is  vulgar  —  fibre  and  particle  ! 

And  cork  !  —  when  the  noble  cork-tree  shades 
A  lovely  group  of  Castilian  maids, 

"lis  a  tiling  for  a  song  or  sonnet  !  — 
But  cork,  as  it  stops  the  bottle  of  gin, 
Or  bungs  the  beer  —  the  sum//  beer  —  in, 
It  pierced  her  heart  like  a  corking-pin, 

To  think  of  standing  upon  it! 


212  MISS  kii.m  wsi-.no 

A  leg  of  gold  —  solid  gold  throughout, 
Nothing  else,  whether  slim  or  stout, 

Should  ever  support  her,  God  willing! 
She  must  —  she  could  —  she  would  have  her  whim! 
Her  lather,  she  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  him  — 

He  might  kill  her  —  she  didn't  mind  killing! 
He  was  welcome  to  cut  off  her  other  limh  — 

He  might  cut  her  all  off  with  a  shilling ! 

All  other  promised  gifts  were  in  vain, 

Golden  girdle,  or  golden  chain, 

She  writhed  with  impatience  more  than  pain, 

And  uttered  "  pshaws  !  "  and  "  pishes  ! " 
But  a  leg  of  gold  !  as  she  lay  in  bed, 
It  danced  before  her  —  it  ran  in  her  head! 

It  jumped  with  her  dearest  wishes! 

"  Gold  —  gold  —  gold  !     O,  let  it  be  gold !  * 
Asleep  or  awake  that  tale  she  told, 

And  when  she  grew  delirious  : 
Till  her  parents  resolved  to  grant  her  wish, 
If  they  melted  down  plate,  and  goblet,  and  dish, 

The  case  was  getting  so  serious. 

So  a  leg  was  made  in  a  comely  mould, 
Of  gold,  fine  virgin  glittering  gold, 

As  solid  as  man  could  make  it  — 
Solid  in  foot,  and  calf,  and  shank, 
A  prodigious  sum  of  money  it  sank  ; 
In  fact,  'twas  a  branch  of  the  family  bank, 

And  no  easy  matter  to  break  it. 

All  sterling  metal,  — not  half-and-half, 

The  goldsmith's  mark  was  stamped  on  the  calf,—* 

Twas  pure  as  from  Mexican  barter! 
Anil  to  make  it  more  costly,  just  over  the  knee, 
Where  another  ligature  used  to  be, 


AND    HER    TRECIOUS    LEG.  213 

Was  a  circle  of  jewels,  worth  shillings  to  see, 
v  A_new-fangled  badge  of  the  garter! 

Twas  a  splendid,  brilliant,  beautiful  leg, 
Fit  for  the  court  of  Scander-Beg, 
That  precious  leg  of  Miss  Kilmansegg  ! 

For,  thanks  to  parental  bounty, 
Secure  from  mortification's  touch, 
She  stood  on  a  member  that  cost  as  much 

As  a  Member  for  all  the  County! 

§a  iumz. 

To  gratify  stern  Ambition's  whims, 

What  hundreds  and  thousands  of  precious  limbs 

On  a  field  of  battle  we  scatter ! 
Severed  by  sword,  or  bullet,  or  saw, 
Off  they  go,  all  bleeding  and  raw, — 
But  the  public  seems  to  get  the  lock-jaw, 

So  b'ttle  is  said  on  the  matter ! 

Legs,  the  tightest  that  ever  were  seen, 

The  tightest,  the  lightest,  that  danced  on  the  green, 

Cutting  capers  to  sweet  Kitty  Clover; 
Shattered,  scattered,  cut,  and  bowled  down, 
Oil'  they  go,  worse  off  for  renown, 
A  line  in  the  Times,  or  a  talk  about  town, 

Than  the  leg  that  a  fiy  runs  over ! 

But  the  precious  Leg  of  Miss  Kilmansegg, 
That  gowden,  goolden,  golden  leg, 

Was  the  theme  of  all  conversation! 
Had  it  been  a  pillar  of  church  and  state, 
Or  a  prop  to  support  the  whole  dead  weight, 
It  could  not  have  furnished  more  debate 

To  the  heads  and  tails  of  the  nation! 


214  MISS    KILMANSEGG 

East  and  west,  and  north  and  south, 

Though  useless  for  either  hunger  or  drouth, — 

The  Leg  was  in  every  body's  mouth, 

To  use  a  poetical  figure  ; 
Rumor,  in  taking  her  ravenous  swim, 
Saw,  and  seized  on  the  tempting  limb, 

Like  a  shark  on  the  leg  of  a  nigger. 

Wilful  murder  fell  very  dead  ; 

Debates  in  the  House  were  hardly  read ; 

In  vain  the  police  reports  were  fed 

With  Irish  riots  and  rumpuses  — 
The  Leg!  the  Leg!  was  the  great  event; 
Through  every  circle  in  life  it  went, 

Like  the  leg  of  a  pair  of  compasses. 

The  last  new  novel  seemed  tame  and  flat ; 
The  Leg,  a  novelty  newer  than  that, 

Had  tripped  up  the  heels  of  fiction ! 
It  Burked  the  very  essays  of  Burke, 
And,  alas  !  ho*  wealth  over  wit  plays  the  Turk! 
As  a  regular  piece  of  goldsmith's  work, 

Got  the  better  of  Goldsmith's  diction. 

"  A  leg  of  gold !  what,  of  solid  gold  ?  " 
Cried  rich  and  poor,  and  young  and  old, 

And  Master  and  Miss  and  Madam  ; 
Twas  the  talk  of  'change  —  the  alley  —  the  bank 
And  with  men  of  scientific  rank 
It  made  as  much  stir  as  the  fossil  shank 

Of  a  lizard  coeval  with  Adam ! 

Of  course  with  Greenwich  and  Chelsea  elves, 
Men  who  had  lost  a  limb  themselves, 

Its  interest  did  not  dwindle  ; 
But  Bdl,  and  Ben,  and  Jack,  and  Tom, 


AND    HER    PRECIOUS    LEO.  215 

Could  hardly  have  spun  more  yarns  therefrom, 
If  the  leg  had  been  a  spindle. 

Meanwhile  the  story  went  to  and  fro, 
Till,  gathering  like  the  ball  of  snow, 
By  the  time  it  got  to  Stratford-le-Bow, 

Through  exaggeration's  touches, 
The  heiress  and  hope  of  the  Kihnanseggs 
Was  propped  on  two  fine  golden  legs, 

And  a  pair  of  golden  crutches  ! 

Never  had  leg  so  great  a  run  ! 

Twas  the  "  go  "  and  the  "  kick  "  thrown  into  one : 

The  mode  —  the  new  thing  under  the  sun  ! 

The  rage  —  the  fancy  —  the  passion! 
Bonnets  were  named,  and  hats  were  worn, 
A  la  golden  leg  instead  of  Leghorn, 
And  stockings  and  shoes 
Of  golden  lines 
Took  the  lead  in  the  walks  of  fashion ! 


The  Golden  Leg  had  a  vast  career, 

It  was  sung  and  danced  —  and  to  show  how  near 

Low  folly  to  lofty  approaches, 
Down  to  society's  very  dregs, 
The  belles  of  Wapping  wore  "  Kihnanseggs," 
And  St.  Giles's  beaux  sported  golden  legs 

In  their  pinchbeck  pins  and  brooches  ! 

c  first  JSlep. 

Supposing  the  trunk  and  limbs  of  man 
Shared,  on  the  allegorical  plan, 

By  the  passions  that  mark  humanity, 
Whichever  migb.1  claim  the  head,  or  heart, 
The  stomach,  or  any  other  part, 

The  legs  would  be  seized  by  Vanity. 


21G 


MISS    KILMANSEGG 


There's  Bardus,  a  Bix-foot  column  of  top, 
A  lighthouse  without  any  light  atop, 

Whose  height  would  attract  beholders, 
If  he  had  not  lost  some  inches  clear 
By  looking  down  at  his  kerseymere, 
Offline  the  limbs  he  holds  so  dear, 

Till  he  got  a  stoop  in  his  shoulders. 

Talk  of  art,  of  science,  or  books, 
And  down  go  the  everlasting  looks, 

To  his  crural  beauties  so  wedded ! 
Try  him,  whenever  you  will,  you  find 
His  mind  in  his  legs,  and  his  legs  in  his  mind, 
All  prongs  and  folly  —  in  short,  a  kind 

Of  fork  — that  is  fiddle-headed. 

What  wonder,  then,  if  Miss  Kilmanscgg, 
With  a  splendid,  brilliant,  beautiful  Leg, 
Fit  for  the  court  of  Scandcr-Beg, 
Disdained  to  hide  it,  like  Joan  or  Meg, 

In  petticoats  stuffed  or  quilted? 
Not  she  !  'twas  her  convalescent  whim 
To  dazzle  the  world  with  her  precious  limb, 

Nay,  to  go  a  little  high-kilted. 

So  cards  were  sent  for  that  sort  of  mob 
Where  Tartars  and  Africans  hob-and-nob, 
And  the  Cherokee  talks  of  his  cab  and  cob 

To  Polish  or  Lapland  lovers  — 
Cards  like  that  hieroglyphical  call 
To  a  geographical  Fancy  Ball 

On  the  recent  post-office  covers. 

For  if  lion-hunters  —  and  great  ones  too  — 

Would  mob  a  savage  from  Latakoo, 

Or  squeeze  for  a  glimpse  of  Prince  Le  Boo, 


^ 


AND    HER.   PRECIOUS    LEG.  217 

That  unfortunate  Sandwich  scion  — 
Hundreds  of  first-rate  people,  no  doubt, 
Would  gladly,  madly,  rush  to  a  rout, 

That  promised  a  Golden  Lion! 

fjcr  (funtjr  §all. 

Of  all  the  spirits  of  evil  fame 

That  hurt  the  soul  or  injure  the  frame, 

And  poison  what's  honest  and  hearty, 
There's  none  more  needs  a  Mathew  to  preach 
A  cooling,  antiphlogistic  speech, 
To  praise  and  enforce 
A  temperate  course, 
Than  the  Evil  Spirit  of  Party. 

Go  to  the  House  of  Commons,  or  Lords, 
And  they  seem  to  be  busy  with  simple  words 

In  their  popular  sense  or  pedantic  — 
But,  alas !  with  their  cheers,  and  sneers,  and  jeers, 
They're  really  busy,  whatever  appears, 
Putting  peas  in  each  other's  ears, 

To  drive  their  enemies  frantic  ! 

Thus  Tories  love  to  worry  the  Whigs, 

Who  treat  them  in  turn  like  Schwalhach  pig», 

Giving  them  lashes,  thrashes,  and  digs, 

With  their  writhing  and  pain  delighted  — 
But  after  all  Unit's  said,  and  more, 
The  malice  and  spite  of  Party  are  poor 
To  the  malice  and  spite  of  a  party  next  door, 

To  a  party  not  invited. 

On  with  the  rap  and  out  with  the  light, 
Weariness  bids  the  world  good-night, 

At  least  for  the  usual  season  ; 
But,  hark !  a  clatter  of  horses'  heels  ; 
19 


218  MISS    KILMANSEGG 

And  Sleep  and  Silence  are  broken  on  wheels, 
Like  Wilful  Murder  and  Treason  ! 

Another  crash  —  and  the  carriage  goes  — 
Again  poor  Weariness  seeks  the  repose 

That  Nature  demands  imperious; 
But  Echo  takes  up  the  burden  now, 
With  a  rattling  chorus  of  row-de-do  w-dow, 
Till  Silence  herself  seems  making  a  row, 

Like  a  Quaker  gone  delirious  ! 

'Tis  night  —  a  winter  night—  and  the  stars 
Are  shining  like  winkin' —  Venus  and  Mars 
Are  rolling  along  in  their  golden  cars 

Through  the  sky's  serene  expansion  — 
But  vainly  the  stars  dispense  their  rays, 
Venus  and  Mars  are  lost  in  the  blaze 

Of  the  Kilmanseggs'  luminous  mansion  ! 

Up  jumps  Fear  in  a  terrible  fright! 

His  bed-chamber  windows  look  so  bright, 

With  light  all  the  square  is  glutted ! 
Up  he  jumps,  like  a  sole  from  the  pan, 
And  a  tremor  sickens  his  inward  man, 
For  he  feels  as  only  a  gentleman  can 

Who  thinks  he's  being  "  gutted." 

Again  Fear  settles,  all  snug  and  warm ; 
But  only  to  dream  of  a  dreadful  storm 

From  Autumn's  sulphurous  locker; 
But  the  only  electric  body  that  falls 
Wears  a  negative  coat  and  positive  smalls, 
And  draws  the  peal  that  so  appalls 

From  the  Kilmanseggs'  brazen  knocker! 

Tis  Curiosity's  benefit  night  — 

And  perchance  'tis  the  English  second-sight, 


AND    HER    PRECIOUS    LEG.  219 

But  whatever  it  be,  so  be  it  — 
As  the  friends  and  guests  of  Miss  Kilmansegg 
Crowd  in  to  look  at  her  Goiden  Leg, 
As  many  more 
Mob  round  the  door, 
To  see  them  going  to  see  it ! 

In  they  go  —  in  jackets  and  cloaks, 
Plumes,  and  bonnets,  turbans,  and  toques, 

As  if  to  a  Congress  of  Nations  : 
Greeks  and  Malays,  with  diggers  and  dirks, 
Spaniards,  Jews,  Chinese,  and  Turks  — 
Some  like  original  foreign  works, 

But  mostly  like  bad  translations. 

In  they  go,  and  to  work  like  a  pack, 

Juan,  Moses,  and  Shachabac, 

Tom,  and  Jerry,  and  Springheeled  Jack, 

For  some  of  low  Fancy  are  lovers  — 
Skirting,  zigzagging,  casting  about, 
Here  and  there,  and  in  and  out, 
With  a  crush,  and  a  rush,  for  a  full-bodied  rout 

In  one  of  the  stiti'est  of  covers. 

In  they  went,  and  hunted  about, 
Open-mouthed  like  chub  and  trout, 
And  some  with  the  upper  lip  thrust  out, 

Like  that  fish  for  routing,  a  barbel  — 
"While  Sir  Jacob  stood  to  welcome  the  crowd, 
And  rubbed  his  hands,  and  smiled  aloud, 
And  bowed,  and  bowed,  and  bowed,  and  bowed, 

Like  a  man  who  is  sawing  marble. 


'» 


For  princes  were  there,  and  noble  peers  ; 
Dukes  descended  from  Norman  spears  j 
Earls  that  dated  from  early  years  ; 


220  MISS    KILMANSEGG 

And  lords  in  vast  variety  — 
Besides  the  gentry  both  new  and  old  — 
For  people  who  stand  on  legs  of  gold 

Are  sure  to  stand  well  with  society. 

"  But  where  —  where  —  where  '.'  "  with  one  accord 
Cried  Moses  and  Mufti,  Jack  and  my  Lord, 

Wang-Fong  and  II  Bondocani  — 
When  slow,  and  heavy,  and  dead  as  a  dump, 
They  heard  a  foot  begin  to  stump, 
Thump  !  lump  ! 
Lump  !  thump  ! 
Like  the  spectre  in  '•  Don  Giovanni!" 

And,  lo!  the  heiress,  Miss  Kilmansegg, 
With  her  splendid,  brilliant,  beautiful  leg, 

In  the  garb  of  a  goddess  olden  — 
Like  chaste  1  )iana  going  to  hunt, 
With  a  golden  spear  —  which  of  course  was  blunt, 
And  a  tunic  looped  up  to  a  gem  in  front, 

To  show  the  Leg  that  was  Golden  ! 


"o 


Gold  !  still  gold  !  her  Crescent  behold, 
That  should  be  silver,  but  would  be  gold  ; 

And  her  robe's  auriferous  spangles  ! 
Her  golden  stomacher  —  how  she  would  melt ! 
Her  golden  quiver  and  golden  belt, 

Where  a  golden  bugle  dangles  ! 

And  her  jewelled  garter  ?     O,  sin  !  0,  shame  ! 
Let  Bride  and  Vanity  bear  the  blame, 
That  brings  such  blots  on  female  fame ! 

But  to  be  a  true  recorder, 
Besides  its  thin  transparent  stuff, 
The  tunic  was  looped  quite  high  enough 

To  give  a  glimpse  of  the  Order ! 


AND    HER    PRECIOUS    LEG.  221 

But  what  have  sin  or  shame  to  do 

With  a  Golden  Leg  —  and  a  stout  one,  too  ? 

Away  with  all  Prudery's  panics  ! 
That  the  precious  metal,  by  thick  and  thin, 
Will  cover  square  acres  of  land  or  sin, 

Is  a  fact  made  plain 

Again  and  again, 
In  morals  as  well  as  mechanics. 

A  few,  indeed,  of  her  proper  sex, 

Who  seemed  to  feel  her  foot  on  their  necks, 

And  feared  their  charms  would  meet  with  checks 

From  so  rare  and  splendid  a  blazon  — 
A  few  cried  "  fie !  "  —  and  "  forward  "  —  and  "  bold '- " 
And  said  of  the  Leg  it  might  be  gold, 

But  to  them  it  looked  like  brazen  ! 

'Twas  hard,  they  hinted,  for  flesh  and  blood, 
Virtue,  and  beauty,  and  all  that's  good, 

To  strike  to  mere  dross  their  topgallants  — 
But  what  were  beauty,  or  virtue,  or  worth, 
Gentle  manners,  or  gentle  birth, 
Nay,  what  the  most  talented  head  on  earth 

To  a  Leg  worth  fifty  Talents  ! 

But  the  men  san^  quite  another  hymn 

Of  glory  and  praise  to  the  precious  limb  — 

Age,  sordid  age,  admired  the  whim, 

And  its  indecorum  pardoned  — 
While  half  of  the  young  —  ay.  more  than  half  — 
Bowed  down  and  worshipped  the  Golden  Calf, 

Like  the  Jews  when  their  hearts  were  hardened. 

A  Golden  Leg  !  what  fancies  it  fired  ! 
What  golden  wishes  and  hopes  inspired! 
To  give  but  a  mere  abridgment  — 
19* 


222  MISS    KILMANSEGG 

What  a  leg  to  leg-bail  Embarrassment's  serf! 
What  a  leg  for  a  leg  to  take  on  the  turf! 
What  a  leg  for  a  marching  regiment ! 

A  Golden  Leg  !  —  whatever  Love  sings, 
'Twas  worth  a  bushel  of  "plain  gold  rings," 

AVitli  which  the  romantic  wheedles. 
Twas  worth  all  the  legs  in  stockings  and  socks  ■ 
Twas  a  leg  that  might  be  put  in  the  stocks, 

N.  15.  —  Not  the  parish  beadle's! 

And  Lady  K.  nid-nodded  her  head, 
Lapped  in  a  turban  fancy-bred, 
Just  like  a  love-apple,  huge  and  red, 
Some  Mussul-womanish  mystery; 
But  whatever  she  meant 
To  represent, 
She  talked  like  the  Muse  of  History. 

She  told  how  the  filial  leg  was  lost  ; 
And  then  how  much  the  gold  one  cost ; 

With  its  weight  to  a  Trojan  fraction  : 
And  how  it  took  off,  and  how  it  put  on ; 
And  called  on  Devil,  Duke,  and  Don, 
Mahomet,  Moses,  and  Prester  John, 

To  notice  its  beautiful  action. 

And  then  of  the  Leg  she  went  in  quest; 
And  led  it  where  the  light  was  best ; 
And  made  it  lay  itself  up  to  rest 

In  postures  for  painters'  studies  : 
It  cost  more  tricks  and  trouble,  by  half, 
Than  it  takes  to  exhibit  a  six-legged  calf 

To  a  boothful  of  country  cuddies. 

Nor  yet  did  the  heiress  herself  omit 
The  arts  that  help  to  make  a  hit, 


AND    HER    PRECIOUS    LEG.  223 

And  preserve  a  prominent  station. 
She  talked  and  laughed  far  more  than  her  share ; 
And  took  a  part  in  "  Rich  and  Hare 
Were  the  Gems  she  wore"  —  and  the  gems  were  there. 

Like  a  song  with  an  illustration. 

She  even  stood  up  with  a  count  of  France 
To  dance  —  alas  !  the  measures  we  dance 

When  Vanity  plays  the  piper  ! 
Vanity,  Vanity,  apt  to  betray, 
And  lead  all  sorts  of  legs  astray, 
Wood,  or  metal,  or  human  clay,  — 

Since  Satan  first  played  the  viper! 

But  first  she  doffed  her  hunting  gear, 

And  favored  Tom  Tug  with  her  golden  spear, 

To  row  with  down  the  river  — 
A  Bonze  had  her  golden  bow  to  hold  ; 
A  Hermit  her  belt  and  bugle  of  gold ; 

And  an  Abbot  her  golden  quiver. 

And  then  a  space  was  cleared  on  the  floor, 
And  she  walked  the  Minuet  de  la  Cour, 
With  all  the  pomp  of  a  Pompadour ; 

But,  although  she  began  a  mimic, 
Conceive  the  faces  of  all  the  rout, 
When  she  finished  off  with  a  whirligig  bout. 
And  the  Precious  Teg  stuck  stiffly  out 

Like  the  leg  of  a. figurante! 

So  the  courtly  dance  was  goldenly  done, 
And  golden  opinions,  of  course,  it  won 

From  all  different  sorts  of  people  — 
Chiming,  ding-dong,  with  flattering  phrase, 
In  one  vociferous  peal  of  praise, 
Like  the  peal  that  rings  on  royal  days 

From  Loyalty's  parish  steeple. 


g2  1  MISS    KII.MANSEGG 

And  yet,  had  the  leg  been  one  of  those 
That  dance  for  bread  in  flesh-colored  hose, 

With  Rosina's  pastoral  bevy, 
The  jeers  it  had  met.  —  the  shouts!  the  scoff! 
The  cutting  advice  to  "  take  itself  off," 

Tor  sounding  but  half  so  heavy. 

Had  it  been  a  leg  like  those,  perchance, 
That  teach  little  girls  and  boys  to  dance, 
To  set,  poussette,  recede,  and  advance, 

"With  the  steps  and  figures  most  proper, — 
Had  it  hopped  for  a  weekly  or  quarterly  sum, 
I  low  little  of  praise  or  grist  would  have  come 

To  a  mill  with  such  a  hopper ! 

But  the  leg  was  none  of  those  limbs  forlorn  — 
Bartering  capers  and  hops  for  corn  — 
That  meet  with  public  hisses  and  scorn, 

Or  the  morning  journal  denounces  — 
Had  it  pleased  to  caper  from  morn  till  dusk, 
There  was  all  the  music  of  "  Money,  Musk" 

In  its  ponderous  bangs  and  bounces. 

But  hark  !  —  as  slow  as  the  strokes  of  a  pump, 
Lump,  thump ! 
Thump,  lump ! 
As  the  Giant  of  Castle  Otranto  might  stump 

To  a  lower  room  from  an  upper  — 
Down  she  goes  with  a  noisy  dint, 
For,  taking  the  crimson  turban's  hint, 
A  noble  lord  at  the  head  of  the  Mint 
Is  leading  the  Leg  to  supper ! 

But  the  supper,  alas  !  must  rest  untold, 
With  its  blaze  of  light  and  its  glitter  of  gold, 
For  to  paint  that  scene  of  glamour, 


AND    HER    PRECIOUS    LEG.  225 

It  would  need  the  great  Enchanter's  charm, 
Who  waves  over  palace,  and  cot,  and  farm, 
An  arm  like  the  goldbeater's  golden  arm 
That  wields  a  golden  hammer. 

He  —  only  He  —  could  fitly  state 

The  Massive  Service  of  Golden  Plate, 

With  the  proper  phrase  and  expansion  — 
The  Rare  Selection  of  Foreign  Wines  — 
The  Alps  of  Ice  and  Mountains  of  Pines, 
The  punch  in  Oceans  and  sugary  shrines, 
The  Temple  of  Taste  from  Gunter's  Designs  — 
In  short,  all  that  Wealth  with  a  Feast  combines, 

In  a  Splendid  Family  Mansion. 

Suffice  it  each  masked  outlandish  guest 
Ate  and  drank  of  the  very  best, 

According  to  critical  conners  — 
And  then  they  pledged  the  hostess  and  host, 
But  the  Golden  Leg  was  the  standing  toast, 
And,  as  somebody  swore, 
Walked  off  with  more 
Than  its  share  of  the  "  hips  !  "  and  honors  ! 

"  Miss  Kilmanscgg !  — 
Full  glasses  I  beg  !  — 
Miss  Kilmansegg  and  her  Precious  Leg  !" 

And  away  went  the  bottle  careering ! 
Wine  in  bumpers  !  and  shouts  in  peals  ! 
Till  the  Clown  didn't  know  his  head  from  his  heels, 
The  Mussulman's  eyes  danced  two-some  reels, 
And  the  Quaker  was  hoarse  with  cheering ! 

"i,-   Dream. 

Miss  Kilmansegg  took  off  her  Leg, 
And  laid  it  down  like  a  cribbage-peg, 


22G  .  MISS    KILMAXSEOO 

For  the  rout  was  done  and  the  riot : 
The  square  was  hushed  ;  not  a  sound  was  heard; 
The  sky  was  gray,  and  no  creature  stirred, 
Excepl  one  little  precocious  bird, 

That  chirped  —  and  then  was  quiet. 

So  still  without,  —  so  still  within  ;  — 
It  had  been  a  sin 
To  drop  a  pin  — 
So  intense  is  silence  after  a  din, 

It  seemed  like  Death's  rehearsal ! 
To  stir  the  air  no  eddy  came  ; 
And  the  taper  burnt  with  as  still  a  flame, 
As  to  flicker  had  been  a  burning  shame, 
tn  a  calm  so  universal. 

The  time  for  sleep  had  come,  at  last ; 
And  there  was  the  bed,  so  soft,  so  vast, 

Quite  a  field  of  Bedfordshire  clover ; 
Softer,  cooler,  and  calmer,  no  doubt, 
Prom  the  piece  of*  work  just  ravelled  out, 
For  one  of  the  pleasures  of  having  a  rout 

Is  the  pleasure  of  having  it  over. 

No  sordid  pallet,  or  truckle  mean, 

Of  straw,  and  rug,  and  tatters  unclean  ; 

But  a  splendid,  gilded,  carved  machine, 

That  was  fit  for  a  royal  chamber. 
On  the  top  was  a  gorgeous  golden  wreath ; 
And  the  damask  curtains  hung  beneath, 

Like  clouds  of  crimson  and  amber. 

Curtains,  held  up  by  two  little  plump  things, 
With  golden  bodies  and  golden  wings, — 
Mere  fins  for  such  solidities  — 


AND    HER    PRECIOUS    LEG.  227 

Two  Cupids,  in  short, 

Of  the  regular  sort, 
But  the  housemaid  called  them  "  Cupidities." 

No  patchwork  quilt,  all  seams  and  scars, 
But  velvet,  powdered  with  golden  stars, 

A  fit  mantle  for  Night-commanders  ! 
And  the  pillow,  as  white  as  snow  undimmed, 
And  as  cool  as  the  pool  that  the  breeze  has  skimmed, 
Was  cased  in  the  finest  cambric,  and  trimmed 

With  the  costliest  lace  of  Flanders. 

And  the  bed  —  of  the  eider's  softest  down, 
Twas  a  place  to  revel,  to  smother,  to  drown 

In  a  bliss  inferred  by  the  poet : 
For  if  ignorance  be  indeed  a  bliss, 
What  blessed  ignorance  equals  this, 

To  sleep  —  and  not  to  know  it  ? 

O,  bed  !  O,  bed  !  delicious  bed  ! 

That  heaven  upon  earth  to  the  weary  head ; 

But  a  place  that  to  name  would  be  ill-bred, 

To  the  head  with  a  wakeful  trouble  — 
'Tis  held  by  such  a  different  lease ! 
To  one,  a  place  of  comfort  and  peace, 
All  stuffed  with  the  down  of  stubble  geese, 

To  another  with  only  the  stubble! 

To  one  a  perfect  halcyon  nest, 

All  calm,  and  balm,  and  quiet,  and  rest, 

And  soft  as  the  fur  of  the  cony  — 
To  another,  so  restless  for  body  and  bead, 
That  the  bed  stems  borrowed  from  Nettlebed, 

And  the  pillow  from  Stratford  the  Stony! 

To  the  happy,  a  first-class  carriage  of  ease, 

To  the  Land  of  Nod,  or  where  you  please ; 


228  MISS    KII.MANSEGG 

But  alas!  for  the  watchers  and  weepers, 
Who  turn,  and  turn,  and  turn  again, 
But  turn,  and  turn,  and  turn  in  vain, 
With  an  anxious  brain, 
And  thoughts  in  a  train 
That  does  not  run  upon  sleepers  ! 

Wide  awake  as  the  mousing  owl, 
Night-hawk,  or  other  nocturnal  fowl,  — 

But  more  profitless  vigils  keeping, — 
Wide  awake  in  the  dark  they  stare, 
Filling  with  phantoms  the  vacant  air, 
As  if  that  crook-hacked  tyrant  Care 

Had  plotted  to  kill  them  sleeping. 

And  O  !  when  the  blessed  diurnal  light 
Is  quenched  by  the  providential  night, 

To  render  our  slumber  more  certain, 
Pity,  pity  the  wretches  that  weep, 
For  they  must  he  wretched  who  cannot  sleep 

When  God  himself  draws  the  curtain  ! 

The  careful  Betty  the  pillow  heats, 

And  airs  the  blankets,  and  smooths  the  sheets, 

And  gives  the  mattress  a  shaking; 
But  vainly  Betty  performs  her  part, 
B'  a  ruffled  head  and  a  rumpled  heart 

As  well  as  the  couch  want  making. 

There's  Morbid,  all  bile,  and  verjuice,  and  nerves, 
Where  other  people  would  make  preserves, 

lie  turns  his  fruits  into  pickles: 
Jealous,  envious,  and  fretful  by  day, 
At  night,  to  his  own  sharp  fancies  a  prey, 
He  lies  like  a  hedgehog  rolled  up  the  wrong  way, 

Tormenting  himself  with  his  prickles. 


AND    HEK    PRECIOUS    LEG.  229 

But  a  child  —  that  hids  the  world  good-night, 
In  downright  earnest,  and  cuts  it  quite  — 

A  cherub  no  art  can  copy,  — 
Tis  a  perfect  picture  to  see  him  lie 
As  if  he  had  supped  on  dormouse  pie, 
(An  ancient  classical  dish,  by  the  by) 

With  sauce  of  syrup  of  poppy. 

O,  bed !  bed  !  bed !  delicious  bed  ! 

That  heaven  upon  earth  to  the  weary  head, 

Whether  lofty  or  low  its  condition  ! 
But,  instead  of  putting  our  plagues  on  shelves, 
In  our  blankets  how  often  we  toss  ourselves, 
Or  are  tossed  bv  such  allegorical  elves 

As  Pride,  Hate,  Greed,  and  Ambition ! 

The  independent  Miss  Kilmansegg 
Took  off  her  independent  Leg 

And  laid  it  beneath  her  pillow, 
And  then  on  the  bed  her  frame  she  cast ; 
The  time  for  repose  had  come  at  last, 
But  long,  long  after  the  storm  is  past 

Rolls  the  turbid,  turbulent  billow. 

No  part  she  had  in  vulgar  cares 

That  belong  to  common  household  affairs  — 

Nocturnal  annoyances  such  as  theirs 

Who  lie  with  a  shrewd  surmising 
That  while  they  arc  couchant  (a  bitter  cup  !) 
Their  bread  and  butter  arc  getting  up, 

And  the  coals  —  confound  them  !  —  are  rising. 

No  fear  she  had  her  sleep  to  postpone, 
Like  the  crippled  widow  who  weeps  alone, 
And  cannot  make  a  doze  her  own, 
20 


230  MISS    KILMANSEGG 

For  the  dread  that  mayhap  on  the  morrow, 
The  true  and  Christian  reading  to  balk, 
A  broker  will  take  up  her  bed  and  walk, 

By  way  of  curing  her  sorrow. 

No  cause  like  these  she  had  to  bewail : 

But  the  breath  of  applause  had  blown  a  gale, 

And  winds  from  that  quarter  seldom  fail 

To  cause  some  human  commotion  ; 
But  whenever  such  breeaes  coincide 
With  the  very  spring-tide 
Of  human  pride, 
There's  no  such  swell  on  the  ocean ! 

Peace,  and  ease,  and  slumber  lost, 

She  tinned,  and  rolled,  and  tumbled,  and  tossed, 

With  a  tumult  that  would  not  settle  : 
A  common  case,  indeed,  with  such 
As  have  too  little,  or  think  too  much, 

Of  the  precious  and  glittering  metal. 

Gold  !  —  she  saw  at  her  golden  foot 
The  peer  whose  tree  had  an  olden  root, 
The  proud,  the  great,  the  learned  to  boot, 

The  handsome,  the  gay.  and  the  witty  — 
The  man  of  science —  of  arms  —  of  art, 
The  man  who  deals  but  at  Pleasure's  mart, 

And  the  man  who  deals  in  the  city. 

Gold,  still  gold  — and  true  to  the  mould  ! 
In  the  very  scheme  of  her  dream  it  told ; 

For,  by  magical  transmutation, 
From  her  Leg  through  her  body  it  seemed  to  go, 
Till,  gold  above,  and  gold  below, 
She  was  gold,  all  gold,  from  her  little  gold  toe 

To  her  organ  of  Veneration  ! 


AND    HER    PRECIOUS    LEG.  231 

And  still  she  retained,  through  Fancy's  art, 
The  golden  bow,  and  the  golden  dart, 
With  which  she  had  played  a  goddess's  part 

In  her  recent  glorification. 
And  still,  like  one  of  the  self-same  brood, 
On  a  plinth  of  the  self-same  metal  she  stood 

For  the  whole  world's  adoration. 

And  hymns  of  incense  around  her  rolled, 
From  golden  harps  and  censers  of  gold,  — • 
For  Fancy  in  dreams  is  as  uncontrolled 

As  a  horse  without  a  bridle  : 
What  wonder,  then,  from  all  checks  exempt, 
II',  inspired  by  the  Golden  Leg,  she  dreamt 

She  was  turned  to  a  golden  idol? 

per  (Courtship. 
When,  leaving  Eden's  happy  land, 
The  grieving  angel  led  by  the  hand 

Our  banished  father  and  mother, 
Forgotten,  amid  their  awful  doom, 
The  tears,  the  tears,  and  the  future's  gloom, 
On  each  brow  was  a  wreath  of  Paradise  bloom, 

That  our  parents  had  twined  for  each  other. 

It  was  only  while  sitting  like  figures  of  stone, 
For  the  grieving  angel  had  skyward  flown, 
As  they  sat,  those  two.  in  the  world  alone, 

With  disconsolate  hearts  nigh  cloven, 
That,  scenting  the  gust  of  happier  hours, 
They  looked  around  for  the  precious  flowers, 
And,  lo  !  —  a  last  relic  of  Eden's  dear  bowers  — 

The  chaplet  that  Love  had  woven! 

And  still,  when  a  pair  of  lovers  meet, 
Theie'.->  a  sweetness  in  air,  unearthly  sweet, 


',J2  MISS    K.ILMAN8EGG 

That  savors  still  of  that  happy  retreat 
Where  Eve  by  Adam  was  courted  : 
Whilst  the  joyous  thrush.,  and  the  gentle  dove, 
Wooed  their  mates  in  the  houghs  above, 
And  the  serpent,  as  yet,  only  sported. 

Who  hath  not  felt  that  breath  in  the  air, 

A  perfume  and  freshness  strange  and  rare, 

A  warmth  in  the  light,  and  a  bliss  every  where, 

When  young  hearts  yearn  together? 
All  sweets  below,  and  all  sunny  above, 
O  !  there's  nothing  in  life  like  making  love, 

Save  making  hay  in  hue  weather ! 

Who  hath  not  found  amongst  his  flowers 
A  blossom  too  bright  for  this  world  of  ours, 

lake  a  rose  among  snows  of  Sweden  ? 
But,  to  turn  again  to  Miss  Kihnansegg, 
Where  must  Love  have  gone  to  beg, 
If  such  a  thins  as  a  Golden  Leg: 

Had  put  its  foot  in  Eden? 

And  yet  —  to  tell  the  rigid  truth  — 

Her  favor  was  sought  by  age  and  youth  — 

For  the  prey  will  find  a  prowler! 
She  was  followed,  flattered,  courted,  addressed, 
Wooed,  and  cooed,  and  wheedled,  and  pressed, 
By  suitors  from  North,  South,  East,  and  West, 

Like  that  heiress,  in  song,  Tibbie  Fowler! 

But,  alas !  alas !  for  the  woman's  fate, 
Who  has  from  a  mob  to  choose  a  mate  ! 

'Tis  a  strange  and  painful  mystery  ! 
But  the  more  the  eggs,  the  worse  the  hatch; 
The  more  the  fish,  the  worse  the  catch  ; 
The  more  the  i ;  >rse  the  match; 

i.    ton*. 


AND    HER    PRECIOUS    LEG.  233 

Give  her  between  a  brace  to  pick, 

And.  mayhap,  with  luck  to  help  the  trick, 

She  will  take  the  Faustus,  and  leave  the  Old  Nick  — 

But,  her  future  bliss  to  baffle, 
Amongst  a  score  let  her  have  a  voice, 
And  she'll  have  as  little  cause  to  rejoice 
As  if  she  had  won  the  "  man  of  her  choice" 

In  a  matrimonial  raffle ! 

Thus,  even  thus,  with  the  heiress  and  hope, 
Fulfilling  the  adage  of  too  much  rope, 

With  so  ample  a  competition, 
She  chose  the  least  worthy  of  all  the  group, 
Just  as  the  vulture.makes  a  stoop, 
And  singles  out  from  the  herd  or  troop 

The  beast  of  the  worst  condition. 

A  foreign  count  —  who  came  incog., 
Not  under  a  cloud,  but  under  a  fog, 

In  a  Calais  packet's  fore-cabin, 
To  charm  sonic  lady  British-born, 
With  his  eyes  as  black  as  the  fruit  of  the  thorn, 
And  his  hooky  nose,  and  his  beard  hall-shorn, 

Like  a  half-converted  Rabbin. 

And  because  the  sex  confess  a  charm 

In  the  man  who  has  slashed  a  head  or  arm, 

Or  has  been  a  throat's  undoing, 
lie  was  dressed  like  one  of  the  glorious  trade, 
At  least  when  glory  is  off  parade, 
Wiiii  a  stock,  and  a  frock,  well  trimmed  with  braid, 

And  frogs  —  that  went  a-wooing. 

Moreover,  as  counts  are  ap1  to  do, 
On  the  left-hand  side  of  his  dark  surtout, 
At  one  of  those  holes  that  buttons  go  through, 
120  * 


2.'!  1  MISS    KILMANSEGO 

(To  be  a  precise  recorder,) 
A  ribbon  he  wore,  or  rather  a  scrap, 
About  an  inch  of  ribbon  mayhap, 
That  one  of  his  rivals,  a  whimsical  chap, 

Described  as  his  "Retail  Order." 

And  then  —  and  much  it  helped  his  chance  — 
lie  could  sing,  and  play  first  fiddle,  and  dance, 
Perform  charades  and  proverbs  of  France  — 

Act  the  tender,  and  do  the  cruel; 
For  amongst  his  other  killing  parts, 
He  had  broken  a  brace  of  female  hearts, 

And  murdered  three  men  in  duel ! 

Savage  at  heart,  and  false  of  tongue, 
Subtle  with  aire,  and  smooth  to  the  young, 

Like  a  snake  in  his  coiling  and  curling  — 
Such  was  the  count  —  to  give  him  a  niche  — 
"Who  came  to  court  that  heiress  rich, 
And  knelt  at  her  foot — one  needn't  say  which  — 

Besieging  her  castle  of  Sterling. 

With  prayers  and  vows  he  opened  his  trench, 
And  plied  her  with  English,  Spanish,  and  French, 

In  phrases  the  most,  sentimental! 
And  quoted  poems  in  high  and  low  Dutch, 
With  now  and  then  an  Italian  touch, 
Till  she  yielded,  without  resisting  much, 

To  homage  so  continental. 

And  then,  the  sordid  bargain  to  close, 
With  a  miniature  sketch  of  his  hooky  nose, 
And  his  dear  dark  eyes,  as  black  as  sloes, 
And  his  bran!  and  whiskers  as  black  as  those, 

The  lady's  conscnl  he  requited  — 
And  instead  of  the  lock  that  lovers  beg, 
The  count  received  from  Miss  Kilmansegg 


AND    HER    PRECIOUS    LEG.  235 

A  model,  in  small,  of  her  Precious  Leg  — 
And  so  the  couple  were  plighted ! 

But,  O!  the  love  that  gold  must  crown  ! 
Better  —  better,  the  love  of  the  clown, 
Who  admires  his  lass  in  her  Sunday  gown, 

As  if  all  the  fairies  had  dressed  her ! 
Whose  brain  to  no  crooked  thought  gives  birth, 
Except  that  he  never  will  part  on  earth 

With  his  true  love's  crooked  tester ! 

Alas  !  for  the  love  that's  linked  with  gold  ! 
Better  —  better  a  thousand  times  told  — 

More  honest,  happy,  and  laudable, 
The  downright  loving  of  pretty  C'is, 
Who  wipes  her  lips,  though  there's  nothing  amiss, 
And  takes  a  kiss,  and  gives  a  kiss, 

In  which  her  heart  is  audible! 

Pretty  ('is,  so  smiling  and  bright, 

Who  loves  as  she  labors,  with  all  her  might, 

And  without  any  sordid  leaven  ! 
Who  blushes  as  red  as  haws  and  hips, 
Down  to  her  very  finger-tips, 
For  Roger's  blue  ribbons  —  to  her,  like  strips 

Cut  out  of  the  azure  of  heaven  ! 

iler    i/tl;uri;ige. 

Twas  morn  —  a  most  auspicious  one  ! 
From  the  golden  East  the  golden  sun 
Came  forth  his  glorious  race  to  run, 

Through  clouds  of  most  splendid  tinges; 
Clouds  that  lately  slept  in  shade, 
But  now  teemed  made 
Of  gold  brocade, 
With  magnificent  golden  fringes. 


23G  >"ss    KILM.VN8EGO 

Gold  above,  and  gold  below, 

The  earth  reflected  the  golden  glow, 

From  rive)',  and  hill,  and  valley  ; 
Gilt  by  the  golden  light  of  mom. 
The  Thames  —  it  looked  like  the  Golden  Horn, 
And  the  barge  that  earned  eoal  or  corn 

Like  Cleopatra's  galley! 

Bright  as  a  cluster  of  golden-rod, 
Suburban  poplars  began  to  nod, 

With  extempore  splendor  furnished  ; 
While  London  was  bright  with  glittering  clocks, 
Golden  dragons,  and  golden  cocks, 
And  above  them  all, 
The  dome  of  St.  Paul, 
With  its  golden  cross  and  its  golden  ball, 
Shone  out  as  if  newly  burnished ! 

And,  lo !  for  golden  hours  and  joys, 
Troops  of  glittering  golden  bovs 
Danced  along  with  a  jocund  noise, 

And  their  gilded  emblems  carried! 
In  short,  'twas  the  year's  most  golden  day, 
By  mortals  called  the  first  of  May, 
When  Miss  Kilmansegg, 
Of  the  Golden  Leg, 
With  a  golden  ring  was  married  ! 

And  thousands  of  children,  women,  and  men, 
Counted  the  clock  from  eighl  till  ten, 

From  St.  James's  sonorous  steeple; 
For,  next  to  that  interesting  job, 
The  hanging  of  Jack,  or  bill,  or  Bob, 
There's  nothing  so  draws  a  London  mob 

As  the  noosing  of  very  rich  people. 


I 


AXD    HER    PRECIOUS    EEG.  237 

And  a  treat  it  was  for  a  mob  to  behold 
The  bridal  carriage  that  blazed  with  gold  ! 
And  the  footmen  tall,  and  the  coachman  bold, 

In  liveries  so  resplendent  — 
Coats  you  wondered  to  see  in  place, 
The}-  seemed  so  rich  with  golden  lace, 

That  they  might  have  been  independent. 

Coats  that  made  those  menials  proud 
Gaze  with  scorn  on  the  dingy  crowd, 

From  their  gilded  elevations ; 
Not  to  forget  that  saucy  lad, 
(Ostentation's  favorite  cad,) 
The  page,  who  looked,  so  splendidly  clad, 

Like  a  page  of  the  "  Wealth  of  Nations." 

But  the  coachman  carried  oft*  the  state, 
With  what  was  a  Lancashire  body  of  late 

Turned  into  a  Dresden  Figure  ; 
With  a  bridal  nosegay  of  early  bloom, 
About  the  size  of  a  birchen  broom, 
And  so  huge  a  white  favor,  had  Gog  been  groom, 

He  need  not  have  worn  a  bigger. 

And  then  to  see  the  groom  !  the  count! 
With  foreign  orders  to  such  an  amount, 

And  whiskers  so  wild  —  nay.  bestial ; 
lie  seemed  to  have  borrowed  the  shaggy  hair 
As  well  as  tin1  stars  of  the  Polar  Bear, 

To  make  him  look  celestial 

And  then  —  Great  Jove — the  struggle,  the  crush, 
The  screams,  the  heaving,  the  awful  rush, 

The  swearing,  the  tearing,  and  lighting. — 
The  hats  and  bonnets  smashed  like  an  egg, — 
To  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  Golden  Leg, 


238  MISS    KILMANSEGG 

Which,  between  the  stops  and  Miss  Kilmansegg, 
Was  fully  displayed  in  alighting! 

From  tho  golden  ankle  up  to  the  knee 
There  it  was  for  the  mob  to  see! 
A  shocking  act  had  it  chanced  to  he 

A  crooked  leg  or  a  skinny  : 
But  although  a  magnificent  veil  she  wore, 
Such  as  never  was  seen  before, 
In  case  of  blushes,  she  blushed  no  more 

Than  George  the  First  on  a  guinea  ! 

Another  step,  and,  lo  !   she  was  launched  ! 
All  in  white,  as  brides  are  blanched, 

With  a  wreath  of  most  wonderful  splendor  — 
Diamonds,  and  pearls,  so  rich  in  device, 
That,  according  to  calculation  nice, 
Her  head  Mas  worth  as  royal  a  price 

As  the  head  of  the  Young  Pretender. 

Bravely  she  shone  —  and  shone  the  more 

As  she  sailed  through  the  crowd  of  squalid  and  poor, 

Thief,  beggar,  and  tatterdemalion  — 
Led  by  the  count,  with  his  sloe-black  eyes 
Bright  with  triumph,  and  some  surprise, 
Like  Anson  on  making  sure  of  Ids  prize 

The  famous  Mexican  galleon  ! 

Anon  came  Lady  K.,  with  her  face 
Quite  made  up  to  act  with  grace, 

But  she  cut  the  performance  shorter, 
For  instead  of  pacing  stately  and  stiff, 
At  the  stare  of  the  vulgar  she  took  a  miff, 
And  ran,  full  speed,  into  church,  as  if 

To  get  married  before  her  daughter. 


AND    HER    PRECIOUS    LEG.  239 

But  Sir  Jacob  walked  more  slowly,  and  bowed 
Right  and  left  to  the  gaping  crowd, 

Wherever  a  glance  was  seizable  ; 
For  Sir  Jacob  thought  he  bowed  like  a  Guelph, 
And  therefore  bowed  to  imp  and  elf, 
And  would  gladly  have  made  a  bow  to  himself, 

Had  such  a  bow  been  feasible. 

And  last  —  and  not  the  least  of  the  sight, 
Six  "  Handsome  Fortunes  "  all  in  white, 
Came  to  help  in  the  marriage  rite, 

And  rehearse  their  own  hymeneals  ; 
And  then,  the  bright  procession  to  close, 
They  were  followed  by  just  as  many  beaux, 

Quite  fine  enough  for  ideals. 

Glittering  man  and  splendid  dames, 

Thus  they  entered  the  porch  of  St.  James', 

Pursued  by  a  thunder  of  laughter ; 
For  the  beadle  was  forced  to  intervene, 
For  Jim  the  Crow,  and  Ins  May-day  Queen, 
With  her  gilded  ladle,  and  Jack  i'  the  Green, 

Would  lain  have  followed  after! 

Beadle-like  he  hushed  the  shout  ; 

But  the  temple  was  full  "  inside  and  out," 

And  a  buzz  kept  buzzing  all  round  about 

Like  bees  when  the  day  is  sunny  — 
A  buzz  universal  that  interfered 
With  the  lite  tint  ought  to  have  been  revered, 
As  if  the  couple  already  were  smeared 

With  Wedlock's  treacle  and  bone]  ! 

Yet  wedlock's  a  very  awful  thing! 
Tis  something  like  that  teat  in  the  ring 
Which  requires  good  nerve  to  do  it  — 


240  MISS    K1LM.YXSF.OO 

When  one  of  a  "  Grand  Equestrian  Troop  " 
Makes  a  jump  at  a  gilded  hoop, 
Not  certain  at  all 
Of  what  may  befall 
After  his  getting  through  it ! 

But  the  count  he  felt  the  nervous  work 
No  more  than  any  polygamous  Turk, 

Or  bold  piratical  skipper, 
Who,  during  his  buccaneering  search, 
Would  as  soon  engage  "  a  hand  "  in  church 

As  a  hand  on  board  his  clipper ! 

And  how  did  the  bride  perform  her  part  ? 
Like  any  bride  who  is  cold  at  heart, 

Merc  snow  with  the  ice's  glitter; 
What  but  a  life  of  winter  for  her! 
Bright  but  chilly,  alive  without  stir, 
So  splendidly  comfortless, — just  like  a  fir 

When  the  frost  is  severe  and  bitter. 

Such  were  the  future  man  anil  wife ! 
Whose  bale  or  bliss  to  the  end  of  life 
A  few  short  words  were  to  settle  — 
Wilt  thou  have  this  woman  ? 

I  will  —  and  then, 
Wilt  thou  have  this  man  ? 
I  will,  and  Amen  — 
And  those  two  were  one  flesh,  in  the  angels'  ken, 
Except  one  Leg  —  that  was  metal. 

Then  the  names  were  signed  —  and  kissed  the  kiss 
And  the  bride,  who  came  from  her  coach  a  miss, 

As  a  countess  walked  to  her  carriage  — 
Whilst  Hymen  preened  his  plumes  like  a  dove, 
And  Cupid  fluttered  his  wings  above, 


AND    HER    PRECIOUS    LEG.  211 

In  the  shape  of  a  fly  —  as  little  a  Love 
As  ever  looked  in  at  a  marriage  ! 

Another  crash  —  and  away  they  dashed, 
And  the  gilded  carriage  and  footmen  flashed 

From  the  eyes  of  the  gaping  people  — 
Who  turned  to  gaze  at  the  toe  and  heel 
Of  the  golden  boys  beginning  a  reel, 
To  the  merry  sound  of  a  wedding-peal 

From  St.  James's  musical  steeple. 

Those  wedding-bells !  those  wedding-bells ! 
How  sweetly  they  sound  in  pastoral  dells 

From  a  tower  in  an  ivy-green  jacket! 
But  town-made  joys  how  dearly  they  cost ! 
And  after  all  are  tumbled  and  tost, 
Like  a  peal  from  a  London  steeple,  and  lost 

In  town-made  riot  and  racket. 

The  wedding-peal,  how  sweetly  it  peals 
With  grass  or  heather  beneath  our  heels, — 

For  bells  are  Music's  laughter! 
But  a  London  peal,  well  mingled,  be  sure, 
With  vulgar  noises  and  voices  impure, 
What  a  harsh  and  discordant  overture 

To  the  harmony  meant  to  come  after  ! 

But  hence  with  Discord  —  perchance,  too  soon 
To  cloud  the  face  of  the  honeymoon 

What  a  dismal  occupation  !  — 
Whatever  Fate's  concerted  trick, 
The  countess  and  count,  at  the  present  nick, 
Have  a  chicken  and  not  a  crow  to  pick 

At  a  sumptuous  cold  collation. 

A  breakfast  —  no  unsubstantial  mess, 
But  one  in  the  style  of  good  Queen  Bess, 
21 


242  MISS    KILMANSEGG 

Who  —  hearty  as  hippocampus  — 
Broke  her  fasl  with  ale  and  beef, 
Instead  of  toast  and  the  Chinese  leaf, 

And  in  lieu  of  anchovy  —  grampus! 

A  breakfast  of  fowl,  and  fish,  and  flesh, 
Whatever  was  sweet,  or  salt,  or  fresh, 

With  wines  the  most  rare  and  curious  — 
Wines,  of  the  richest  flavor  and  hue  ; 
With  fruits  from  the  worlds  both  Old  and  New; 
And  fruits  obtained  before  they  were  due 

At  a  discount  most  usurious. 

For  wealthy  palates  there  be,  that  scout 
"What  is  in  season,  for  what  is  out, 

And  prefer  all  precocious  savor  ; 
For  instance,  early  green  peas,  of  the  sort 
That,  costs  some  four  or  five  guineas  a  quart; 

Where  the  Mint  is  the  principal  flavor. 

And  many  a  wealthy  man  was  there, 
Such  as  the  wealthy  city  could  spare, 

To  put  in  a  portly  appearance  — 
Men  whom  their  fathers  had  helped  to  gild: 
And  men  who  had  had  their  fortunes  to  build, 
And  —  much  to  their  credit —  had  richly  filled 

Their  purses  by  pursy-verance. 

Men,  by  popular  rumor  at  least, 
Not  the  last  to  enjoy  a  feast  ! 

And  truly  they  were  not  idle ! 
Luckier  far  than  the  chestnut  tits, 
Which,  down  at  the  door,  stood  champing  their  bits, 

At  a  different  sort  of  bridle. 

For  the  time  was  come —  and  the  whiskered  count 
Helped  his  bride  in  the  carriage  to  mount, 
And  fain  would  the  Muse  deny  it, 


1 


■  ■ 


AND    HER    PBECIOUS    LEG.  243 

But  the  crowd,  including  two  butchers  in  blue, 
(The  regular  killing  Whitechapel  hue,) 
Of  her  Precious  Calf  had  as  ample  a  view, 
As  if  they  had  come  to  buy  it ! 

Then  away  !  away  !  with  all  the  speed 
That  golden  spurs  can  give  to  the  steed,  — 
Both  yellow  boys  and  guineas,  indeed, 

Concurred  to  urge  the  cattle,  — 
Away  they  went,  with  favors  white, 
Yellow  jackets,  and  pannels  bright, 
And  left  the  mob,  like  a  mob  at  night, 

Agape  at  the  sound  of  a  rattle 

Away  !  away  !  they  rattled  and  rolled, 

The  count,  and  his  bride,  and  her  Leg  of  Gold  — 

That  faded  charm  to  the  charmer ! 
Away, —  through  Old  Brentford  rang  the  din, 
Of  wheels  and  heels,  on  their  way  to  win 
That  hill,  named  after  one  of  her  kin 

The  Hill  of  the  Golden  Farmer  ! 

Gold,  still  gold  —  it  flew  like  dust  ! 

It  tipped  the  post-boy,  and  paid  the  trust  ; 

In  each  open  palm  it  was  freely  thrust ; 

There  was  nothing  hut  giving  and  takinsr ! 
And  if  gold  could  insure  the  future  hour. 
What  hopes  attended  that  bride  to  her  bower; 
But,  alas!  even  hearts  with  a  four-horse  power 

Of  opulence  end  in  breaking! 

\)(x    ifionnjmoort. 

The  moon  — the  moon,  so  silver  and  cold, 
Her  (i>  kle  temper  has  oft  been  told, 

Now  shady  —  now  bright  and  sunny  — 
But,  of  all  the  lunar  things  that  change, 
The  one  that  shows  most  fickle  and  strange, 


2  1  1  MISS    KI1.M  VNSr.GG 

And  takes  the  most  eccentric  range, 
Is  the  moon  —  so  called  —  of  honey  ! 

To  some  a  full-grown  orb  revealed, 
As  big  and  as  round  as  Xorval's  shield, 

And  as  bright  as  a  burner  Bude-lighted ; 
To  others  as  dull,  and  dingy,  and  damp, 
As  any  oleaginous  lamp. 
Of  the  regular  old  parochial  stamp, 

In  a  London  fog  benighted. 

To  the  loving,  a  bright  and  constant  sphere, 
That  makes  earth's  commonest  scenes  appear 

All  poetic,  romantic,  and  tender ; 
Hanging  with  jewels  a  cabbage-stump, 
And  investing  a  common  post,  or  a  pump, 
A  currant-bush  or  a  gooseberry  clump, 

With  a  halo  of  dreamlike  splendor. 

A  sphere  such  as  shone  from  Italian  skies, 
In  Juliet's  dear,  dark,  liquid  eyes, 

Tipping  trees  with  its  argent  braveries  — 
And  to  couples  not  favored  with  Fortune's  boons 
One  of  the  most  delightful  of  moons, 
For  it  brightens  their  pewter  platters  and  spoons 

Like  a  silver  service  of  Savory's! 

For  all  is  bright,  and  beauteous,  and  clear, 
And  the  meanesl  thing  most  precious  and  dear, 

"When  the  magic  of  love  is  present : 
Love,  that  lends  a  sweetness  and  grace 
To  the  humblest  spot  and  the  plainest  face  — 
That  turns  Wilderness  Row  into  Paradise  Place, 

And  Garlic  Hill  to  Mount  Pleasant ! 

Love  that  sweetens  sugarless  tea, 
And  makes  contentment  and  joy  agree 


AND    HER    PRECIOUS    LEG.  245 

With  the  coarsest  boarding  and  bedding ; 
Love,  that  no  golden  ties  can  attach, 
But  nestles  under  the  humblest  thatch, 
And  will  fly  away  from  an  emperor's  match 

To  dance  at  a  penny  wedding  ! 

O,  happy,  happy,  thrice  happy  state, 
"When  such  a  bright,  planet  governs  the  fate 

Of  a  pair  of  united  lovers  ! 
Tis  theirs,  in  spite  of  the  serpent's  hiss, 
To  enjoy  the  pure  primeval  kiss 
With  as  much  of  the  old  original  bliss 

As  mortality  ever  recovers  ! 

There's  strength  in  double  joints,  no  doubt, 

In  double  X  Ale,  and  Dublin  Stout, 

That  the  single  sorts  know  nothing  about — ■ 

And  a  fist  is  strongest  when  doubled  — 
And  double  aqua-fortis,  of  course, 
And  double  soda-water,  perforce, 

Are  the  strongest  that  ever  bubbled! 

There's  double  beauty  whenever  a  swan 
Swims  on  a  lake,  with  her  double  thereon; 
And  ask  the  gardener,  Luke  or  John, 

Of  the  beauty  of  double-blowing  — 
A  double  dahlia  delights  the  eye  \ 
And  it's  far  the  loveliest  sight  in  the  sky 

When  a  double  rainbow  is  glowing! 

There's  warmth  in  a  pair  of  double  soles ; 
As  well  as  a  double  allowance  of  coals  — 

In  a  coal  thai  is  double-breasted  — 
In  double  windows  and  double  doors; 
And  a  double  lT  wind  is  blest  by  scores 

For  its  warmth  to  the  tender-chested. 
21  ' 


llO  MISS   KI1.MANSEGG 

There's  two-fold  sweetness  in  double-pipes; 
And  a  double  barrel  and  double  snipes 

Give  the  sportsman  a  duplicate  pleasure  : 
There's  double  safety  in  double  loeks  ; 
And  double  letters  bring  cash  for  the  box ; 
And  all  the  world  knows  that  double  knocks 

Are  gentility's  double  measure. 

There's  a  double  sweetness  in  double  rhymes, 
And  a  double  at  whist  and  a  double  Times 

In  profit  are  certainly  double  — 
By  doubling,  the  hare  contrives  to  escape  : 
And  all  seamen  delight  in  a  doubled  cape, 

And  a  double-reefed  topsail  in  trouble. 

There's  a  double  chuck  at  a  double  chin, 

And  of  course  there's  a  double  pleasure  therein, 

If  the  parties  are  brought  to  telling : 
And,  however  our  Dennises  take  offence, 
A  double  meaning  shows  double  sense; 
And  if  proverbs  tell  truth, 
A  double  tooth 
Is  Wisdom's  adopted  dwelling! 

But  double  wisdom,  and  pleasure,  and  sense, 
Beauty,  respect,  strength,  comfort,  and  thence 

Through  whatever  the  list  discovers, 
They  are  all  in  the  double  blessedness  summed 
Of  what  was  formerly  double-drummed, 

The  marriage  of  two  true  lovers  ! 

Now  the  Kilmansegg  moon  —  it  must  be  told  — ■ 
Though  instead  01  silver  it  tipped  with  gold  — 
Shone  rather  wan,  and  distant,  ami  cold, 

And,  before  its  days  wire  at  thirty, 
Such  gloomy  clouds  began  to  collect, 


AND    HER    TRECIOUS    LEG.  247 

With  an  ominous  ring  of  ill  effect, 
As  gave  but  too  much  cause  to  expect 
Such  weather  as  seamen  call  dirty ! 

And  yet  the  moon  was  the  "  young  May  moon," 
And  the  scented  hawthorn  had  blossomed  soon, 

And  the  thrush  and  the  blackbird  were  sineine — ■ 
The  snow-white  lambs  were  skipping  in  play, 
And  the  bee  was  humming  a  tune  all  day 
To  flowers  as  welcome  as  flowers  in  May, 

And  the  trout  in  the  stream  was  springing ! 

But  what  were  the  hues  of  the  blooming  earth, 
Its  scents  —  its  sounds  —  or  the  music  and  mirth, 

Or  its  furred  or  its  feathered  creatures, 
To  a  pair  in  the  world's  last  sordid  stage, 
Who  had  never  looked  into  Nature's  page, 
And  had  strange  ideas  of  a  Golden  Age, 

Without  any  Arcadian  features  ? 

And  what  were  joys  of  the  pastoral  kind 

To  a  bride  —  town-made  —  with  a  heart  and  mind 

With  simplicity  ever  at  battle  ? 
A  bride  of  an  ostentatious  race, 
Who.  thrown  in  the  Golden  Farmer's  place, 
Would  have  trimmed  her  shepherds  with  golden  lace, 

And  gilt  the  horns  of  her  eattle. 

She  could  not  please  the  pigs  with  her  whim, 
And  the  sheep  wouldn't  <  asl  their  e\  es  at  a  limb 

For  which  she  had  been  such  a  martyr  : 
Tlie  deer  in  the  park,  and  the  eolts  at  grass, 
And  the  cows,  unheeded  let  it   pass  ; 
And  the  ass  on  the  (111111111111  was  such  an  ass, 
That  he  wouldn't  have  swapped 
The  thistle  he  cropped 
For  her  Leg,  including  the  Garter  ! 


248  MISS    KILMA.NSEGG 

She  hated  lanes,  and  she  haled  fields  — 
She  hated  all  that  the  country  yields  — 

And  barely  knew  turnips  from  clover: 
She  hated  walking  in  any  shape, 
And  a  country  stile  was  an  awkward  scrape, 
Without  the  bribe  of  a  mob  to  gape 

At  the  Leg  in  clambering  over  ! 

O  blessed  Nature,  "  O  rus  !  O  rus !  " 
"Who  cannot  sigh  for  the  country  thus, 

Absorbed  in  a  worldly  torpor  — 
Who  does  not  yearn  for  its  meadow-sweet  breath, 
Untainted  by  care,  and  crime,  and  death, 
And  to  stand  sometimes  upon  grass  or  heath — - 

That  soul,  spite  of  gold,  is  a  pauper  ! 

But  to  hail  the  pearly  advent  of  Morn, 
And  relish  the  odor  fresh  from  the  thorn, 

She  was  far  too  pampered  a  madam  — 
Or  to  joy  in  the  daylight  waxing  strong, 
While,  after  ages  of  sorrow  and  wrong, 
The  scorn  of  the  proud,  the  misrule  of  the  strong, 
And  all  the  woes  that  to  man  belong, 
The  lark  still  carols  the  self-same  song 

That  he  did  to  the  uncurst  Adam  ! 

The  Lark  !  she  had  given  all  Lcipsic's  flocks 
For  a  Vauxhall  tune  in  a  musical  box ; 

And  as  for  the  birds  in  the  thicket, 
Thrush  or  ousel  in  leafy  niche, 
The  linnet  or  finch,  she  was  far  too  rich 
To  care  for  a  morning  concert  to  which 

She  was  welcome  without  any  ticket. 

Gold,  still  gold,  her  standard  of  old, 
All  pastoral  joys  were  tried  by  gold, 
Or  by  fancies  golden  and  crural  — 


AND    HER    PRECIOUS    LEG.  249 

Till  ere  she  had  passed  one  week  unblest, 
As  her  agricultural  uncle's  guest, 
Her  mind  was  made  up  and  fully  imprest 
That  felicity  could  not  be  rural. 

And  the  count  ?  —  to  the  snow-white  lambs  at  play, 
And  all  the  scents  and  the  sights  of  May, 

And  the  birds  that  warbled  their  passion, 
His  ears  and  dirk  eyes,  and  decided  nose 
Were  as  deaf  and  as  blind  and  as  dull  as  those 
That  overlook  the  Bouquet  de  Rose, 
The  Huile  Antique, 
And  Parfum  Unique, 
In  a  barber's  Temple  of  Fashion. 

To  tell,  indeed,  the  true  extent 
Of  his  rural  bias  *°  far  it  went 

As  to  covet  estates  in  ring  fences  — 
And  for  rural  lore  he  had  learned  in  town 
That  the  country  was  green  turned  up  with  brown, 
And  garnished  with  trees  that  a  man  might  cut  down, 

Instead  of  his  own  expenses. 

And  yet,  had  that  fault  been  his  only  one, 
The  pair  might  have  had  few  quarrels  or  none, 
-    For  their  tastes  thus  fir  were  in  common  ; 
But  faults  lie  had  that  a  haughty  bride 
With  a  Golden  Leg  could  hardly  abide  — 
Faults  that  would  even  have  roused  the  pride 
Of  a  fir  less  metalsome  woman ! 

It  was  early  days  indeed  for  a  wife, 
In  the  very  spring  of  her  married  life. 

To  be  chilled  by  its  wintry  weather  — 
But,  instead  of  sitting  as  love-birds  do, 
Or  Hymen's  turtles  that  bill  and  coo  — 


250  MISS    KII.MANSEGG 

Enjoying  their  "  moon  and  honey  for  two," 
They  were  scarcely  seen  together  ! 

In  vain  she  sat  with  her  Precious  Leg 
A  little  exposed,  a  la  Kilmansegg, 

And  rolled  her  eyes  in  their  sockets ! 
He  left  her  in  spite  of  her  tender  regards, 
And  those  loving  murmurs  described  by  bards, 
For  the  rattling  of  dice  and  the  shuffling  of  cards, 

And  the  poking  of  balls  into  pockets  ! 

Moreover  be  loved  the  deepest  stake 

And  the  heaviest  bets  the  players  would  make ; 

And  he  drank  —  the  reverse  of  sparely,  — 
And  he  used  strange  curses  that  made  her  fret; 
And  when  he  played  with  herself  at  piquet, 
She  found,  to  her  cost, 
For  she  always  lost, 
That  the  count  did  not  count  quite  fairly. 

And  then  came  dark  mistrust  and  doubt, 
Gathered  by  worming  his  secrets  out, 

And  slips  in  his  conversations  — 
Fears,  which  all  her  peace  destroyed, 
That  his  title  was  null  — his  coffers  were  void  — 
And  his  French  chateau  was  in  Spain,  or  enjoyed 

The  most  airy  of  situations. 

But  still  his  heart  —  if  he  had  such  a  part  — 
She  —  only  she  —  might  possess  his  heart, 

And  hold  his  affections  in  fetters  — 
Alas  !  that  hope,  like  a  crazy  ship, 
"Was  forced  its  anchor  anil  cable  to  slip, 
When,  seduced  by  her  fears,  she  took  a  dip 

In  his  private  papers  and  letters. 


AND    HER    PRECIOUS    LEG.  251 

Letters  that  told  of  dangerous  leagues  ; 
And  notes  that  hinted  as  many  intrigues 

As  the  count's  in  the  "  Barber  of  Seville  "  — 
In  short,  such  mysteries  came  to  light, 
That  the  countess-bride,  on  the  thirtieth  m'ght, 
Woke  and  started  up  in  affright, 
And  kicked  and  screamed  with  all  her  might, 
And  finally  fainted  away  outright, 

For  she  dreamt  she  had  married  the  Devil ! 

fjer  IFltscnr. 

Who  hath  not  met  witli  home-made  bread, 
A  heavy  compound  of  putty  and  lead  — 
And  home-made  wines  that  rack  the  head, 

And  home-made  liqueurs  and  waters? 
Homo-made  pop  that  will  not  foam. 
And  home-mad.'  dishes  tint  drive  one  from  home, 
Not  to  name  each  mess, 
For  the  face  or  dress, 
Home-made  by  the  homely  daughters  ? 

Home-made  physic,  that  sickens  the  sick  ; 
Thick  for  thin  and  thin  for  thick  ;  — 
In  short,  each  homogeneous  trick 

For  poisoning  domesticity  ? 
And  since  our  Parents,  called  the  First, 
A  little  family  squabble  nurst, 
Of  all  our  evils  the  worst  of  the  worst 

Is  home-made  infelicity. 

There's  :i  golden  bird  thai  claps  its  wings, 
And  dances  lor  joy  on  its  perch,  and  sings 

With  a  Persian  exultation  : 
For  the  sun  is  shining  into  the  room, 
And  brightens  up  the  carpet-bloom, 


•- 


252  MISS    KILMANSKGG 

As  if  it  were  new,  bran-new  from  the  loom, 
Or  the  lone  nun's  fabrication. 

And  thence  the  glorious  radiance  flame* 
On  pictures  in  massy  gilded  frames  — 
Enshrining,  however,  no  painted  dames, 

But  portraits  of  colts  and  fillies  — 
Pictures  hanging  on  walls  which  shine, 
In  spite  of  the  bard's  familiar  line, 

With  clusters  of  "  gilded  lilies." 

And  still  the  flooding  sunlight  shares 
Its  lustre  with  gilded  sofas  and  chairs, 

That  shine  as  if  freshly  burnished  — 
And  gilded  tables,  with  glittering  stocks 
Of  gild(  d  china,  and  golden  clocks, 
Toy,  and  trinket,  and  musical  box, 

That  Peace  and  Paris  have  furnished. 

And,  lo  !  with  the  brightest  gleam  of  el. 

The  glowing  sunbeam  is  seen  to  fall 

On  an  object  as  rare  as  splendid  — 
The  golden  foot  of  the  Golden  Leg 
Of  the  countess  —  once  Miss  Kilmanseffg 


Put  there  all  sunshine  is  ended. 


08 


Her  cheek  is  pale,  and  her  eye  is  dim, 
And  downward  cast,  yet  not  at  the  limb, 
Once  the  centre  of  all  speculation  ; 

But  downward  drooping  in  comfort's  dearth, 
As  gloomy  thoughts  are  drawn  to  the  earth  — 
Whence  human  sorrows  derive  then-  birth  — 

By  a  moral  gravitation. 

Her  golden  hair  is  out  of  its  braids, 
And  her  sighs  betray  the  gloomy  shades 
That  her  evil  planet  revolves  in  — 


AND    HER    PRECIOUS    LEG.  253 

And  tears  are  falling  that  catch  a  gleam 
So  bright  as  they  drop  in  the  sunny  beam, 
That  tears  of  aqua  regia  they  seem, 
The  water  that  gold  dissolves  in! 

Yet.  not  in  filial  grief  were  shed 

Those  tears  for  a  mother's  insanity ; 
Nor  yet  because  her  father  was  dead, 
For  the  bowing  Sir  Jacob  had  bowed  his  head 

To  Death  —  with  his  usual  urbanity  ; 
The  waters  that  down  her  visage  rilled 
Were  drops  of  unrectified  spirit  distilled 

From  the  limbec  of  Pride  and  Vanity. 

Tears  that  fell  alone  and  uncheckt, 

Without  relief,  and  without  respect, 

Like  the  fabled  pearls  that  the  pigs  neglect, 

When  pigs  have  that  opportunity  — 
And  of  all  the  griefs  that  mortals  share, 
The  one  that  seems  the  hardest  to  bear 

Is  the  grief  without  community. 

How  blessed  the  heart  that  has  a  friend 
A  sympathizing  ear  to  lend 

To  troubles  too  great   to  smother ! 
For  as  ale  and  porter,  when  Hat,  are  restored 
Till  a  sparkling,  bubbling  head  they  afford, 
So  sorrow  is  cheered  by  being  poured 

From  one  vessel  into  another. 

But  friend  or  gossip  she  had  not  one 

To  hear  the  vile  deeds  that  the  count  had  done, 

How  night  after  nighl  he  rambled; 
And  how  she  had  learned  by  sad  degrees 
That  he  drank,  and  smoked,  and,  worse  than  these, 

That  he  '■  swindled,  intrigued,  and  gambled." 
22 


2~)i  MISS    KILMANSEGO 

How  he  kissed  the  maids,  and  sparred  with  John 
And  came  to  bed  with  his  garments  on; 

With  other  offences  as  heinous  — 
And  broughl  strangt  gentlemen  home  to  dine, 
That  he  said  were  in  the  Fancj  line, 
And  they  fancied  spirits  instead  of  wine, 

And  called  her  lap-dog  "  Wenus!" 

Of  "  making  a  book  "  how  he  made  a  stir, 
But  never  had  written  a  line  to  her, 

Once  his  idol  and  Cara  Sposa  : 
And  how  he  had  stormed,  and  treated  her  ill, 
Because  she  refused  to  go  down  to  a  mill, 
She  didn't  know  where,  but  remembered  still 

That  the  miller's  name  was  Mendoza. 

How  often  lie  walked  her  up  at  night, 
And  oftener  still  by  the  morning  light, 

Reeling  home  from  his  haunts  unlawful ; 
Singing  songs  that  shouldn't  lie  sung, 
Except  by  beggars  and  thieves  unhung  — 
Or  volleying  oaths,  that  a  foreign  tongue 

Made  still  more  Inn-rid  and  awful ! 

How  oft,  instead  of  otto  of  rose, 

With  vulgar  smells  he  offended  her  nose, 

From  gin,  tobacco,  and  onion  ! 
And  then  how  wildly  he  used  to  stare! 
And  shake  his  fist  at  nothing,  and  swear, — 
And  pluck  by  the  handful  his  shaggy  hair, 
Till  he  looked  like  a  study  of  Giant  Despair 

For  a  new  edition  of  Bunyan  ! 

For  dice  will  run  the  contrary  way, 
As  well  is  known  to  all  who  play, 

And  cards  will  conspire  as  in  treason: 
And  wliat  with  keeping  a  hunting-box, 


AND    HER    PRECIOUS    LEG.  255 

Following  fox  — 
Friends  in  flocks, 
Burgundies,  Hocks, 
From  London  Docks; 
Stultz's  frocks, 
Manton  and  Nock's 
Barrels  and  locks, 
Shooting  blue  rocks, 
Trainers  and  jocks, 
Buskins  and  socks, 
Pugilistical  knocks, 
And  fighting-cocks, 
If  he  found  himself  short  in  funds  and  stocks, 
These  rhymes  will  furnish  the  reason! 

His  friends,  indeed,  were  falling  away  — 
Friends  who  insist  on  play  or  pay  — 
And  he  feared  at  no  very  distant  day 

To  be  cut  by  Lord  and  by  Cadger, 
As  one  who  was  gone  or  going  to  smash, 
For  his  cheeks  no  longer  drew  the  cash, 
Because,  as  his  comrades  explained  in  flash, 

"  He  had  overdrawn  his  badger." 

Gold!  gold — alas!  for  the  gold 
Spent  where  souls  are  bought  and  sold, 

In  Vice's  Walpurgis  revel! 
Alas!  for  muffles,  and  bulldogs,  and  guns, 
The  leg  that  walks,  and  the  Leg  that  runs, 
All  real  evils,  though  Fancy  01 
When  they  lead  to  debt,  dishonor,  and  duns, 

Nay,  to  death,  and  perchance  the  Devil  ! 

Alas!  for  the  last  of  a  Golden  race! 
Had  she  cried  her  wrongs  in  the  market-place, 
She  had  warrant  tor  all  her  clamor  — 


2j  Q  MISS    Kll.M.VNSKGG 

For  the  worst  of  rogues,  and  brutes,  and  rakes, 
Was  breaking  her  heart  by  constant  aches, 
With  as  little  remorse  as  the  pauper  who  breaks 
A  flint  with  a  parish  hammer ! 

1«   fas*   Mm. 

Now  the  Precious  Leg,  while  cash  was  flush, 
Or  the  count's  acceptance  worth  a  rush, 

Had  never  excited  dissension  ; 
But  no  sooner  the  stocks  began  to  fall, 
Thau,  without  any  ossification  at  all, 
The  limb  became  what  people  call 

A  perfect  bone  of  contention. 

For  altered  days  brought  altered  ways, 
And  instead  of  the  complimentary  phrase, 

So  current  before  her  bridal  — 
The  countess  heard,  in  language  low, 
That  her  Precious  Leg  was  precious  slow, 
A  good  'un  to  look  at,  but  bad  to  go, 

And  kept  quite  a  sum  lying  idle. 

That  instead  of  playing  musical  airs, 

Like  Colin's  foot  in  going  up-stairs  — 

As  the  wife  in  the  Scottish  ballad  declares  — 

It  made  an  infernal  stumping. 
Whereas  a  member  of  cork,  or  wood, 
Would  In'  lighter  and  cheaper,  and  quite  as  good, 

Without  the  unbearable  thumping. 

Perhaps  she  thought  it  a  decent  thing 
To  show  her  calf  to  cobbler  and  king, 

But  nothing  could  be  absurder  — 
While  none  hut  the  crazy  would  advertise 
Their  gold  before  their  servants"  eyes, 


AND    HER    PRECIOUS    LEG.  257 

Who  of  course  some  night  would  make  it  a  prize, 
By  a  shocking  and  barbarous  murder. 

But  spite  of  hint,  and  threat,  and  scoff, 

The  Leg  kept  its  situation  : 
For  legs  arc  not  to  be  taken  off 

By  a  verbal  amputation. 
And  mortals  when  they  take  a  whim, 
The  greater  the  folly  the  staffer  the  limb 

That  stands  upon  it  or  by  it  — 
So  the  countess,  then  Miss  Kilmansegg, 
At  her  marriage  refused  to  stir  a  peg, 
Till  the  lawyers  had  fastened  on  her  leer, 

As  fast  as  the  law  could  lie  it. 

Firmly  then  —  and  more  firmly  yet  — 

With  scorn  for  scorn,  and  with  threat  for  threat, 

The  proud  one  confronted  the  cruel  : 
And  loud  and  bitter  the  quarrel  arose, 
Fierce  and  merciless  —  one  of  those, 
With  spoken  daggers,  and  looks  like  blows, 

In  all  but  the  bloodshed  a  duel ! 

Bash,  and  wild,  and  wretched,  and  wrong, 
Were  the  words  that  came  from  weak  and  strong, 

Till,  maddened  for  desperate  matters, 
Fierce  as  tigress  escaped  from  her  den, 
She  flew  to  her  desk  —  'twas  opened —  and  then, 
In  the  time  it  takes  to  try  a  pen, 
Or  the  clerk  to  utter  his  slow  Amen, 

Her  Will  was  in  fiftj   1, illers! 

Bui  the  count,  instead  of  curses  wild, 
Only  nodded  his  head  and  smiled. 
As  if  a!  the  spleen  of  an  angry  child; 


23S  MISS    KILMANSEGG 

But  the  calm  was  deceitful  and  sinister! 
A  lull  like  the  lull  of  the  treacherous  sea  — 
For  Hate  in  that  moment  had  sworn  to  be 
The  Golden  1, e^'s  sole  Legatee, 

And  that  verj  night  to  administer! 

|)H    Death. 

Tis  a  stern  and  startling  thing  to  think 
How  often  mortality  stands  on  the  brink 

Of  its  grave  without  any  misgiving  : 
And  yet,  in  this  slippery  world  of  strife, 
In  the  stir  of  human  bustle  so  rife 
There  are  daily  sounds  to  tell  us  that  Life 

Is  dying,  and  Death  is  living! 

Ay,  Beauty  the  girl,  and  Love  the  boy, 
Bright  as  they  are  with  hope  and  joy, 

How  their  souls  would  sadden  instanter, 
To  remember  that  one  of  those  wedding  bells, 
Which  ring  so  merrily  through  the  dells, 
Is  the  same  that  knells 
Our  last  farewells, 
Only  broken  into  a  canter  ! 

But  breath  and  blood  set  doom  at  nought  — 
How  little  the  wretched  countess  thought, 

When  at  night  she  unloosed  her  sandal, 
That  the  Fates  had  woven  her  burial-cloth, 
And  that  ]  )eath,  in  the  shape  of  a  death's  head  moth, 

Was  fluttering  round  her  candle  ! 

As  she  looked  at  her  clock  of  or-molu, 

For  the  hours  she  had  gone  so  wearily  through 

At  the  end  of  a  day  of  trial  — 
How  little  she  saw  in  her  pride  of  prime 


AND    HER    PRECIOUS    LEG.  259 

The  dart  of  death  in  the  hand  of  Time  — 
That  hand  which  moved  on  the  dial ! 

As  she  went  with  her  taper  up  the  stair, 
How  little  her  swollen  eye  was  aware 

That  the  Shadow  which  followed  was  double! 
Or  when  she  closed  her  chamber  door, 
It  was  shutting  out,  and  forevermore, 

The  world  —  and  its  worldly  trouble. 

Little  she  dreamt,  as  she  laid  aside 

Her  jewels  —  after  one  glance  of  pride  — 

They  were  solemn  bequests  to  Vanity  — 
Or  when  her  robes  she  began  to  doff, 
That  she  stood  so  near  to  the  putting  off 

Of  the  flesh  that  clothes  humanity. 

And  when  she  quenched  the  taper's  light, 
How  little  she  thought,  as  the  smoke  took  flight, 
That  her  day  was  done  —  and  merged  in  a  night 
Of  dreams  and  duration  uncertain  — 
Or,  along  with  her  own, 
That  a  hand  of  bone 
"Was  closing  mortality's  curtain  ! 

But  life  is  sweet,  and  mortality  blind, 
And  youth  is  hopeful,  and  Fate  is  kind 

In  concealing  the  day  of  sorrow; 
And  enough  is  the  present  tense  of  toil  — 

For  this  world  is,  to  all,  a  stiffish  soil  — 
Ami  the  mind  Hies  hack  with  a  glad  recoil 
From  th    debts  not  due  till  to-morrow. 

Wherefore  else  '1  »es  the  spirit  flj 

And  hid  its  daily  circs  good-by, 
Along  with  its  daily  clothing? 
Just  as  the  felon  condemned  to  die  — 


200  M1SS    KILMANSEGG 

With  a  very  natural  loathing — ■ 
Leaving  the  sheriff  fee  dream  of  ropes, 
From  his  gloomy  cell  in  a  vision  elopes, 
To  caper  on  sunny  greens  and  slopes, 

Instead  of  the  dance  upon  nothing. 

Thus,  even  thus,  the  countess  slept, 
While  Death  still  nearer  and  nearer  crept, 

Like  the  Thane  who  smote  the  sleeping — - 
But  her  mind  was  busy  with  early  joys, 
Her  golden  treasures  and  golden  toys, 
That  hashed  a  bright 
And  golden  light 
Under  lids  still  red  with  weeping. 

The  golden  doll  that  she  used  to  hug! 
Her  coral  of  gold,  and  the  golden  mug ! 

Her  godfather's  golden  presents  ! 
The  golden  service  she  had  at  her  meals, 
The  golden  watch,  and  chain,  and  seais, 
Her  golden  scissors,  and  thread,  and  reels, 

And  her  golden  fishes  and  pheasants ! 

The  golden  guineas  in  silken  purse  — 

And  the  golden  legends  she  heard  from  her  nurse, 

Of  the  Mayor  in  his  gilded  carriage  — 
And  London  streets  that  were  paved  with  gold  — 
And  the  golden  eggs  that  were  laid  of  old  — 
With  each  golden  thing 
To  the  golden  ring 
At  her  own  auriferous  marriage  ! 

And  still  the  golden  light  of  the  sun 
Through  her  golden  dream  appeared  to  run, 
Though  the  night  that  roared  without  was  one 
To  terrify  seamen  or  gypsies  — 


AND    HEli    PRECIOUS    LEG.  261 

While  the  moon,  as  if  in  malicious  mirth, 
Kept  peeping  down  at  the  ruffled  earth, 
As  though  she  enjoyed  the  tempest's  birth, 
In  revenge  of  her  old  eclipses. 

But  vainly,  vainly  the  thunder  fell, 

For  the  soul  of  the  sleeper  was  under  a  spell 

That  time  had  lately  embittered  — 
The  count,  as  once  at  her  foot  he  knelt  — 
That  foot  which  now  he  wanted  to  melt ! 
But  —  hush  !  —  'twas  a  stir  at  her  pillow  she  felt- 

And  some  object  before  her  glittered. 

Twas  the  Golden  Leg!  —  she  knew  its  gleam  ! 
And  up  she  started,  and  tried  to  scream, — 

But  even  in  the  moment  she  started  — 
Down  came  the  limb  with  a  frightful  smash, 
And,  lost  in  the  universal  flash 
That  her  eyeballs  made  at  so  mortal  a  crash, 

The  spark,  called  Vital,  departed  ! 


Gold,  still  gold  !  hard,  yellow,  and  cold, 

For  gold  she  had  lived,  and  she  died  for  gold- 

By  a  golden  weapon — not  oaken  ; 
In  the  morning  they  found  her  all  alone  — 
Stiff,  and  bloody,  and  cold  as  stone  — 
But  her  Leg,  the  Golden  Leg,  was  gone, 

And  the  "golden  bowl  was  broken  !" 

G  I  I  — still  gold!  it  haunted  her  yet  — 
At  the  Golden  Lion  the  inquest  met  — 

Its  foreman,  a  carver  and  gilder  — 
And  the  jury  debated  from  twelve  till  three 
What  the  verdict  ought  to  be, 


202  A    MOBNIWG    THOUGHT. 

And  they  brought  it  in  as  Felo-de-Se, 
"  Because  her  own  leg  had  killed  her  ! " 

Tier   porsl. 

Gold!  gold!  gold!  gold! 
Bright  and  yellow,  hard  and  cold, 
Molten,  graven,  hammered  and  rolled; 
Heavy  to  get,  and  light  to  hold ; 
Hoarded,  bartered,  bought,  and  sold, 
Stolen,  borrowed,  squandered,  doled: 
Spurned  by  the  young,  but  hugged  by  the  old 
To  the  very  verge  of  the  church-yard  mould  ; 
Price  of  many  a  crime  untold  : 
Gold!  gold!  gold!  gold! 
Good  or  bad  a  thousand-fold  ! 

How  widely  its  agencies  vary  — 
To  save  —  to  ruin  —  to  curse  —  to  bless  — 
As  even  its  minted  coins  express, 
Now  stamped  witli  the  image  of  good  Queen  Bess, 

And  now  of  a  Bloody  Mary. 


A   MORNING   THOUGHT. 

No  more,  no  more  will  I  resign 
My  couch  so  warm  and  soft, 

To  trouble  trout  with  hook  and  line, 
That  will  not  spring  aloft. 

With  larks  appointments  one  may  fix 
To  greet  the  dawning  skies, 

But  hang  the  getting  up  at  six 
For  fish  that  will  not  rise! 


L 


LOVE    AXD    LUNACY.  2G3 


LOVE  AXD   LUNACY. 


The  Moon  — who  does  not  love  the  silver  moon, 
In  all  her  fantasies  and  all  her  phases  ? 

Whether  lull-orbed  in  the  nocturnal  noon, 
Shining  in  all  the  dew-drops  on  the  daisies, 
To  light  the  tripping  Fairies  in  their  mazes, 

While  stars  are  winking  at  the  pranks  of  Puck  ; 
Or  huge  and  red,  as  on  brown  sheaves  she  gazes 

Or  new  and  thin  when  coin  is  turned  for  luck  ;  — 
Who  will  not  say  that  Dian  is  a  Duck  ? 

But,  O  !  how  tender,  beautiful  and  sweet, 

When  in  her  silent  round,  serene,  and  clear, 
By  assignation  loving  fancies  meet, 

To  recompense  the  pangs  of  absence  drear! 

!So  Ellen,  dreaming  of  Lorenzo,  dear, 
But  distant  from  the  city  mapped  by  Mogg, 

Si  ill  saw  his  image  in  that  silver  sphere, 
Plain  as  the  Man  with  lantern,  bush,  and  dog, 
That  used  to  set  our  ancestors  a-gog. 

And  so  she  told  him  in  a  prettj  letter, 

That  came  to  hand  exactly  as  Saint   Meg's 

Was  striking  ten  —  eleven  had  been  better; 
For  then  he  might  have  eaten  six  more  eggs, 
And  both  of  the  bedevilled  turkey-legs, 

With  relishes  from  East,  West,  North,  and  South, 
Draining,  beside,  the  teapot  to  the  dregs. 

Whereas  a  man  whose  heart  is  in  bis  mouth, 

1>  rather  spoilt  for  hunger  and  fur  drouth. 

And  so  the  kidneys,  broiling  hot,  were  wasted; 
The  brawn  —  it  never  entered  in  hi-  thought; 


2(3  J-  LOVE    AXI)    l.r.N  A(  V. 

The  grated  Parmesan  remained  untasted  ; 

The  potted  shrimps  were  left  as  they  were  bought, 
The  capelings  stood  as  merely  good  for  nought, 

The  German  sausage  did  not  tempt  him  better, 
Whilst  Juno,  licking  her  poor  lips,  was  taught 

There's  neither  bone  nor  skin  about  a  letter, 

Gristle,  nor  scalp,  that  one  can  give  a  setter. 

Heaven  bless  the  man  who  first  devised  a  mail ! 

Heaven  bless  that  public  pile  which  stands  concealing 
The  Goldsmiths'  front  with  such  a  solid  veil! 

Heaven  bless  the  Master,  and  Sir  Francis  Freeling, 

The  drags,  the  nags,  the  leading  or  the  wheeling, 
The  whips,  the  guards,  the  horns,  the  coats  of  scarlet, 

The  boxes,  bags,  those  evening  bells  a-pealing ! 
Heaven  bless,  in  short,  each  posting  thing,  and  varlet, 
That  helps  a  Werter  to  a  sigh  from  Charlotte. 

So  felt  Lorenzo  as  he  oped  the  sheet, 

Where,  first,  the  darling  signature  he  kissed, 

And  then,  recurring  to  its  contents  sweet 
With  thirsty  eyes,  a  phrase  I  must  enlist, 
lie  (jitlped  the  words,  to  hasten  to  their  gist ; 

In  mortal  ecstasy  his  soul  was  bound  — 

When,  lo !  with  features  all  at  once  a-twist, 

He  gave  a  whistle,  wild  enough  in  sound 

To  summon  Faustus's  Infernal  Hound ! 

Alas  !  what  little  miffs  and  tiffs  in  love, 

A  snubbish  word,  or  pouting  look  mistaken, 

Will  loosen  screws  with  sweethearts  hand  and  glove, 
O!  love,  rock  firm  when  chimney-pots  were  shaken, 
A  pettish  breath  will  iffs  awaken, 

To  spil  like  hump-backed  eat  .  larling  Towzers ! 

Till  hearts  are  wrecked  and  foundered,  and  forsaken, 


LOVE    AND    LUNACY.  '2G5 

As  ships  go  to  Old  Davy,  Lord  knows  how,  sirs, 
While  heaven  is  blue  enough  for  Dutchmen's  trousers ! 


"  The  moon's  at  full,  love,  and  I  think  of  you  "  — 

Who  would  have  thought  that  such  a  kind  P.  S. 
Could  make  a  man  turn  white,  then  red,  then  blue, 

Then  bl  ick,  and  knit  his  eyebrows  and  compress 

His  teeth,  as  if  about  to  effervesce 
Like  certain  people  when  they  lose  at  whist ! 

So  looked  the  chafed  Lorenzo,  ne'ertheless, 
And,  in  a  trice,  the  paper  he  had  kissed 
Was  crumpled  like  a  snowball  in  his  fist ! 

Alt !  had  he  been  less  versed  in  scientific^ — 
.More  ignorant,  in  short,  of  what  is  whit  — 

lie  ne'er  had  Hared  up  in  such  calorifics; 
But  he  would  seek  societies,  and  trot 
To  Clubs  —  Mechanics'  Institutes  —  mid  got 

With  Birkbeck  —  Bartley  —  Combe  —  George  Robins 
—  Rennie, 
And  other  lecturing  men.     And  bid  he  not 

That  work,  o!' weekly  parts,  which  sells  so  many, 

The  Copper-bottomed  Magazine  —  or  "  Lenny  ?  " 

But,  of  all  learned  pools  whereon,  or  in, 

Men  dive  like  dabchicks,  or  like  swallows  skim, 
Sonic  hardly  damped,  sonic  wetted  to  the  skin. 

Some  drowned  like  pigs  when  they  attempt  to  swim, 

Astronomy  was  most  Lorenzo's  whim, 
(Tis  studied  by  a  Prince  among  the  Burmans) : 

lie  loved  those  heavenly  bodies  which,  the  Hymn 
Of  Addison  declares,  preach  solemn  sermons^ 
While  waltzing  on  their  pivots  lil  rig  Germans. 

Night  after  night,  with  telescope  in  hand. 
Supposing  that  the  night  was  fair  and  cl< 
23 


2GG  I0VE    AND    LUNACY. 

Aloft,  on  the  house-top,  he  took  his  stand, 
Till  he  obtained  to  know  each  twinkling  sphere 
Better,  I  doubt,  than  Milton's  "  Starry  Vere;" 

Thus,  reading  through  poor  Ellen's  fond  epistle, 
He  soon  espied  the  flaw  —  the  lapse  so  sheer 

That  made  him  raise  his  hair  in  such  a  bristle, 

And  like  the  Boatswain  of  the  Storm-Ship,  whistle. 

"  The  moon's  at  full,  love,  and  I  think  of  thee,"  — 

"  Indeed  !  I'm  very  much  her  humble  debtor, 
But  not  the  moon-calf  she  would  have  me  be. 

Zounds!  does  she  fancy  that  I  know  no  better?'1 

Herewith,  at  either  coiner  of  the  letter 
He  pave  a  most  ferocious,  rending  pull ;  — 

"  O  woman  !  woman  !  that  no  vows  can  fetter, 
A  moon  to  stay  for  three  weeks  at  the  full ! 
By  Jove  !  a  very  pretty  cock-and-bull ! 

"The  moon  at  full  !  'twas  very  finely  reckoned! 

Why  so  she  wrote  me  word  upon  the  first, 
The  twelfth,  and  now  upon  the  twenty-second  — 

Full !  —  yes  —  it  must  be  full  enough  to  burst! 

But  let  her  go —  of  all  vile  jilts  the  worst  "  — 
Here  with  his  thumbs  he  pave  contemptuous  snaps^ 

Anon  he  blubbered  like  a  child  that's  nursed, 
And  then  he  hit  the  table  frightful  raps, 
And  stamped  till  he  had  broken  both  his  straps. 

"The  moon's  at  full  —  and  I  am  in  her  thought-— 

No  doubt  :  I  do  believe  it  in  my  soul!" 
Here  he  threw  up  his  head,  and  gave  a  snort 

Like  a  young  horse  first  harnessed  to  a  pole ; 

"  The  moon  is  full  —  ay,  so  is  this  d — d  bowl  i  " 
And,  grinning  like  the  sourest  of  curmudgeon*, 

Globe  —  water  —  fishes  —  he  dashed  down  tiie  whole, 


LOVE    A\D    LTIKACY.  207 

Strewing  the  carpet  -with  the  gasping  gudgeons  ; 
Men  do  the  strangest  things  in  such  love-dudgeons. 

"  I  fill  her  thoughts  —  her  memory's  vicegerent? 

No,  no  —  some  paltry  puppy  —  three  weeks  old  — 
And  round  as  Norval's  shield  "  —  thus  incoherent 

His  fancies  grew  as  he  went  on  to  scold  ; 

So  stormy  waves  are  into  breakers  rolled, 
Worked  up  at  last  to  mere  chaotic  wroth  — 

This —  that  — heads  —  tails  —  thoughts  jumbled  un- 
controlled, 
As  onions,  turnips,  meat,  in  boiling  broth, 
By  turns  hob  up,  and  splutter  in  the  froth. 

"  Fool  that  I  was  to  let  a  baby  face  — 

A  full  one  —  like  a  hunter's  —  round  and  red  — 
Ass  that  I  am,  to  give  her  more  a  place 

Within  this  heart "  —  and  here  he  struck  his  head. 

"  'Sdeath  !  are  the  almanac-compilers  dead  ? 
But  no  —  'tis  all  an  artifice  —  a  trick, 

Some  newer  face  —  some  dandy  underbred  — 
Well  —  be  it  so  —  of  all  the  sex  I'm  sick  !  " 
Here  Juno  wondered  why  she  got  a  kick. 

"  '  The  moon  is  full '  —  where's  her  infernal  scrawl  ? 

'  And  you  are  in  my  thought  :   that  silver  ray 
Will  ever  your  dear  image  thus  recall  ' — ■ 

My  image  ?     Mine  !     She'd  barter  it  away 

For  Pretty  Poll's  on  an  Italian's  tray! 
Three  weeks,  full  weeks  —  it  is  too  plain — too  bad  — 

Too  gross  ami  palpable!     0  cursed  day! 
Mj  senses  have  not  crazed  —  but  if  they  had  — 
Such  moons  would  worry  a  .Mid  Doctor  mad  ! 

"O  Nature  !  wherefore  did  you  frame  a  lip 

So  fair  for  falsehood  ?     Wherefore  have  you  dressed 


208  LOVE    AM)    LUNACY. 

Deceit  so  angel-like  ?  "     "With  sudden  rip 
He  tore  six  new  buff  buttons  from  his  vest, 
And  groped  with  hand  impetuous  at  his  breast, 

As  if  some  ilea  from  Juno's  fleecy  curls 
Had  skipped  to  batten  on  a  human  chest  : 

But  no  —  the  band  comes  forth,  and  down  it  hurls 

A  lady's  miniature  beset  with  pearls. 

Yet  long  upon  the  floor  it  did  not  tarry, 
Before  another  outrage  could  be  planned  : 

Poor  Juno,  who  had  learned  to  fetch  and  carry, 
Picked  up  and  brought  it  to  her  master's  hand, 
Who  seized  it,  and  the  mimic  features  scanned ; 

Yet  not  with  the  old  loving  ardent  drouth, 
He  only  saw  in  that  fair  face,  so  bland, 

Look  how  he  would  at  it.  East,  West,  North,  South, 

A  moon,  a  full  one,  with  eyes,  nose,  and  mouth. 

"  I'll  go  to  her  ;  "  —  herewith  his  hat  he  touched, 
And  gave  his  arm  a  most  heroic  brandish  ; 

"  lint  no  —  I'll  write  " —  and  here  a  spoon  he  clutched, 
And  rammed  it  with  such  fury  in  the  standish, 
A  sable  Hood,  like  Niger  the  outlandish, 

Came  rushing  forth.     O  Antics  and  Buffoons  ! 
Ye  never  danced  a  caper  so  ran-tan-dish  ; 

He  jumped,  thumped,  tore  —  swore  —  more  than    ten 
dragoons, 

At  all  nights,  noons,  moons,  spoons,  and  pantaloons 

But  soon  ashamed,  or  weary,  of  such  dancing, 
Without  a  Collinet's  or  Weippert's  band, 

His  ram  pant  arms  and  legs  left  off  their  prancing, 
And  down  he  sat  again,  with  pen  in  hand, 
Not  fiddle-headed,  or  King's  pattern  grand, 

But  one  of  Bramah's  patent  Caligrapliics ; 


■  ■ 


LOVE    AND    LUXAC'Y. 


And  many  a  sheet  it  spoiled  before  he  planned 
A  likelj  letter.     Used  to  pure  seraphics, 
Philippics  sounded  strangely  after  Sapphics. 

Long  while  he  rocked  like  Yankee  in  his  chair, 

Staring  as  he  would  stare  the  wainscot  through, 
And  then  he  thrust  his  fingers  in  his  hair, 

And  set  his  crest  up  like  a  cockatoo ; 

And  trampled  with  his  hoofs,  a  mere  Yahoo  : 
At  last,  with  many  a  tragic  frown  and  start, 

He  penned  a  billet,  very  far  from  doux, 
Twas  sour,  severe  —  but  think  of  a  man's  smart 
"Writing  with  lunar  caustic  on  his  heart ! 

The  letter  done  and  closed,  he  lit  his  taper, 
\nd  sealing,  as  it  were,  his  other  mocks, 

lie  stamped  a  -rave  device  upon  the  paper, 
No  Cupid  toying  with  his  Psyche's  locks, 
But  some  stern  head  of  the  old  Stoic  stocks  — 

Then,  fiercely  striding  through  the  staring  streets, 
lie  dropped  the  bitter  missive  in  a  box, 

Beneath  the  cakes,  and  tarts,  and  sugared  treats 

In  Mrs.  Smelling's  window-full  of  sweets. 

Soon  sped  the  letter  —  thanks  to  modern  plans, 
Our  English  mails  run  little  in  the  style 

Of  those  great  German  wild-beast  caravans, 

2?i7-wagens  —  though  they  do  not  "go  like  He"  — 
But  take  a  good  twelve  minutes  to  the  mile  — 

On  Monday  morning,  jusl  at  ten  o'clock, 

As  Ellen  hummed  "  The  Young  May  Moon  "  the  while, 

Her  ear  was  startled  In   tint  double  knock 

Which  thrills  the  nerves  like  an  electric  shock! 

Her  right  hand  instantly  forgot  its  cunning. 
And  down  into  the  street  it  dropped,  or  thing, 
23  . 


270  LOVE    AND    LUNACY. 

Right  on  the  hat  and  wig  of  Mr.  Gunning, 

The  jug  that  o'er  her  ten-weeks-stocks  had  hung; 
Then  down  the  stairs  by  twos  and  threes  she  sprung, 

And  through  the  passage  like  a  burglar  darted. 
Alas!  how  sanguine  are  the  fond  and  young  — 

She  little  thought,  when  with  the  coin  she  parted, 

She  paid  a  sixpence  to  be  broken-hearted  ! 

Too  dear  at  any  price ;  had  she  but  paid 
Nothing,  and  taken  discount,  it  was  dear; 

Yet,  worthless  as  it  was,  the  sweet-lipped  maid 
Oft  kissed  the  letter  in  her  brief  career 
Between  the  lower  and  the  upper  sphere, 

Where,  seated  in  a  study  bistre-brown, 
She  tried  to  pierce  a  mystery  as  clear 

As  thai  I  once  saw  puzzling  a  young  clown  — 

"  Heading  Made  Easy,"  but  turned  upside  down. 

Yet  Ellen,  like  most  misses  in  the  land. 

Had  sipped  sky  blue  through  certain  of  her  teens, 
At  one  of  those  establishments  which  stand 

In  highways,  byways,  squares,  and  village  greens  ; 

Twas  called  "  The  Grove,"  a  name  that  always  meang 
Two  poplars  stand  like  sentries  at  the  gate  — 

Each  window  had  its  close  Venetian  screens 
And  Holland  blind,  to  keep  in  a  cool  state 
The  twenty-four  Young  Ladies  of  Miss  Bate. 

But  when  the  sen  ens  were  left  unclosed  by  chance, 

The  blinds  not  down,  as  if  Miss  B.  were  dead, 
Each  upper  window  to  a  passing  glance 

Revealed  a  little  dimity  white  b<  d  ; 

Each  lower  one  a  cropped  or  curly  head  ; 
And  thrice  a  week,  for  soul's  and  health's  economies, 

Along  the  road  the  twenty-four  were  led, 


LOVE    AND    LUNACY.  271 

Like  coupled  hounds,  whipped  in  by  two  she-dominies 
With  faces  rather  graver  than  Melpomene's. 

And  thus  their  studies  they  pursued  :  —  On  Sunday, 

licet",  collects,  batter,  texts  from  Dr.  Trice; 
Mutton.  French,  pancakes,  grammar  —  of  a  Monday; 

Tuesday  —  hard  dumplings,  globes,  Chapone's  Advice ; 

Wednesday  —  fancy-work,  rice-milk  (no  spice); 
Thursday  —  pork,  dancing,  currant-bolsters,  reading; 

Friday  —  beef,  Mr.  Butler,  and  plain  rice  : 
Saturday  —  scraps,  short  lessons  and  short  feeding, 
Stocks,  back-boards,  hash,  steel-collars,  and  good  breeding. 

From  this  repertory  of  female  learning 
Came  Ellen  once  a  quarter,  always  fatter  ! 

To  gratify  the  eyes  of  parents  yearning. 
Twas  evident  in  bolsters,  beef,  and  batter, 
Hard  dumplings,  and  rice-milk,  she  did  not  smatter, 

But  heartily,  as  Jenkins  says,  "  demollidge  ;" 
But  as  for  any  learning,  not  to  Hatter, 

As  often  happens  when  girls  leave  their  college, 

She  had  done  nothing  but  grow  out  of  knowledge. 

At  Long  Division  sums  she  had  no  chance, 

And  History  was  quite  as  had  a  balk  ; 
Her  French  it  was  too  small  for  Petty  I'1  ranee 

And  Priscian  suffered  in  her  English  talk  : 

Eler  drawing  might  he  done  with  cheese  or  chalk  -, 
As  for  the  globes  —  the  use  of  the  terrestrial 

She  knew  when  she  went  out  to  take  a  walk, 
Or  take  a  ride  :  but  touching  the  celestial, 
Her  knowledge  hardly  soared  above  the  bestial. 

Nothing  she  learned  of  Juno,  Dallas,  Mars; 

Georgium,  for  what  she  knew,  might  stand  for  Burgo, 


272  LOVE    AND    LUNACY. 

Sidus,  for  Master  :  then,  for  northern  stars, 
The  Bear  she  fancied  did  in  sable  fur  go, 
The  Bull  was  Farmer  Giles's  bull,  and,  ergo, 

The  Ram  the  same  that  butted  at  her  brother; 
As  fur  the  Twins,  she  only  guessed  that  Virgo 

From  coining  after  them,  must  be  their  mother; 

The  Scales  weighed  soap,  tea,  figs,  like  any  other. 

As  ignorant  as  donkeys  in  Gallicia, 

She  thought  that  Saturn,  with  his  Belt,  was  but 
A  private,  may  he,  in  the  Kent  Militia: 

That  Charles's  Wain  would  stick  in  a  deep  rut, 

That  Venus  was  a  real  Wes1  End  slut  — 
O,  gods  and  goddesses  of  Greek  Theogony ! 

That  Bemice's  Hair  would  curl  and  cut. 
That  Cassiopeia's  Chair  was  good  Mahogany, 
Nicely  French-polished  —  such  was  her  cosmogony ! 

Judge,  then,  how  puzzled  by  the  scientifics 

Lorenzo's  letter  came  now  to  dispense  ; 
A  lizard,  crawling  over  hieroglyphics, 

Knows  quite  as  much  of  their  Egyptian  sense  ; 

A  sort  of  London  fog,  opaque  and  dense, 
Hung  over  verbs,  nouns,  genitives,  and  datives. 

In  vain  she  pored  and  pored,  with  eyes  intense, 
As  well  is  known  to  oyster-operatives, 
Mere  looking  at  the  shells  won't  open  natives. 

Yet  mixed  with  the  hard  words,  so  called,  she  found 
Some  easy  ones  that  gave  her  heart  the  staggers; 

Words  giving  tongue  against  her,  like  a  hound 
At  picking  out  a  fault  —  words  speaking  daggers 
The  very  letters  seemed,  in  hostile  swaggers, 

To  lash  their  tails,  but  not  as  horses  do, 

Nor  like  the  tails  of  spaniels,  gentle  waggers, 


LOVE    AND    LUNACY.  273 

But  like  a  lion's,  ere  he  tears  in  two 

A  black,  to  sec  it'  he  is  black  all  through. 

With  open  mouth,  and  eyeballs  at  full  stretch, 
She  gazed  upon  the  paper  sad  and  sorry, 

No  sound  —  no  stir  —  quite  petrified,  poor  wretch! 
As  when  Apollo,  in  old  allegory, 
Down-stooping  like  a  falcon,  made  his  quarry 

Of  Xiohe,  just  turned  to  Purbeck  stone  ; 
In  fact,  since  Cupid  got  into  a  worry, 

Judge  if  a  suing  lover,  let  alone 

A  lawyer,  ever  wrote  in  such  a  tone. 

"  Ellen,  I  will  no  longer  call  you  mine, 

That  time  is  past,  and  ne'er  can  come  again  ; 

However  other  lights  undimmed  may  shine, 
And  undiminishing,  one  truth  is  plain, 
Which  I,  alas!  have  learned  —  that  love  can  wane. 

The  dream  has  passed  away,  the  veil  is  rent, 
Your  heart  was  not  intended  for  my  reign  ; 

A  sphere  so  full,  I  feel,  was  never  meant 

With  one  poor  man  in  it  to  be  content. 

"  It  must,  no  doubt,  be  pleasant  beyond  measure, 
To  wander  underneath  the  whispering  bough 

With  Dian,  a  perpetual  round  of  pleasure. 
Nay,  fear  not  —  I  absolve  of  every  vow  — 
I'se  —  use  your  own  celestial  pleasure  now, 

Your  apogee  and  perigee  arrange. 

Elerschel  might  aptly  stare  and  wonder  how, 

To  me  that  <  disk  has  nothing  strange  — 

•A  counterfeit  is  something  bard  to  change. 

"  O  Ellen  !  I  once  little  thought  to  write 

Such  words  unto  you,  with  so  hard  a  pen; 
Yet  outraged  love  will  change  its  nature  quite, 


274  LOVE    AND    LTJNACT. 

And  turn  like  tiger  bunted  to  its  den  — 

How  Falsehood  trips  in  her  deceits  on  men  ! 
And  stands  abashed,  discovered,  and  forlorn  ! 

Had  it  been  only  cusped  —  but  gibbous  —  then 
li  had  gone  down  —  but  Faith  drew  hack  in  scorn, 
And  would  not  swallow  it  —  without  a  horn ! 

"  I  am  in  occultation  —  that  is  plain  : 

My  culmination's  past —  that's  quite  as  clear. 
But  think  not  I  will  sutler  your  disdain 

To  hang  a  lunar  rainbow  on  a  tear. 

Whate'er  my  pangs,  the}-  shall  lie  buried  here ; 
No  murmur  —  not  a  sigh  —  shall  thence  exhale  : 

Smile  on  —  and  for  your  own  peculiar  sphere 
Choose  some  eccentric  path  —  you  cannot  foil, 
And  pray  stick  on  a  most  portentous  tail! 

"  Farewell !  I  hope  you  are  in  health  and  gay; 

For  me,  I  never  felt  so  well  and  merry  — 
As  for  the  bran-new  idol  of  the  day, 

Monkey  or  man,  I  am  indifferent  —  very! 

Nor  even  will  ask  who  is  the  Happy  Jerry  ; 
My  jealousy  is  dead,  or  gone  to  sleep, 

But  let  me  hint  that  you  will  want  a  wherry, 
Three  weeks  spring-tide,  and  not  a  chance  of  neap, 
Your  parlors  will  be  flooded  six  feet  deep ! 

"O  Ellen  !  how  delicious  was  that  light 

Wherein  our  plighted  shadows  used  to  blend. 
Meanwhile  the  melancholy  bird  of  night  — 

No  more  of  that  —  the  lover's  at  an  end. 

^  et  if  I  may  advise  you,  as  a  friend, 
Before  you  next  pen  sentiments  so  fond, 

Study  your  cycles  —  I  would  recommend 


LOVE    AND    LUNACY.  275 

Our  Airy  —  and  let  South  be  duly  conned, 
And  take  a  dip,  I  beg,  in  the  great  Pond. 

"  Farewell  again  !  it  is  farewell  forever  ! 

Before  your  lamp  of  night  be  lit  up  thrice, 
I  shall  be  sailing,  haply,  for  Swan  River, 

Jamaica,  or  the  Indian  land  of  rice, 

Or  Boothia  Felix  —  happy  clime  of  ice! 
For  Trebizond,  or  distant  Scanderoon, 

Ceylon,  or  Java  redolent  of  spice, 
Or  settling,  neighbor  of  the  Cape  baboon, 
Or  roaming  o'er  —  The  Mountains  of  the  Moon ! 

"  What  matters  where  ?  my  world  no  longer  owns 

That  dear  meridian  spot  from  which  I  dated 
Degrees  of  distance,  hemispheres,  and  zones, 

A  globe  all  blank  and  barren  and  belated. 

What  matters  where  my  future  life  be  fated? 
Willi  Lapland  hordes,  or  Koords  or  Afric  peasant, 

A  squatter  in  the  western  woods  located, 
What  matters  where?     My  bias,  at  the  present, 
Leans  to  the  country  that  reveres  the  Crescent! 

'•  Farewell !  and  if  forever,  fare  thee  well ! 

As  wrote  another  of  my  fellow-martyrs  : 
1  ask  no  sexton  for  his  passing-bell, 

1  do  not  ask  your  tear-drops  to  lie  starters, 

However  1  may  die,  transfixed  by  Tartars, 
By  Cobras  poisoned,  by  Constrictors  strangled, 

By  shark  or  cayman  snapt  above  the  garters, 
By  royal  tiger  or  Cape  linn  mangled, 
Or  starved  to  death  in  the  wild  woods  entangled, 

••Or  tortured  slowly  at  an  Indian  stake, 

Or  smothered  in  the  sandy  hot  simoom. 


27H  WYE    AM)    LUNACY. 

Or  crushed  in  Chili  by  earth's  awful  quake, 
Or  baked  in  lava,  a  Vesuvian  tomb, 
Or  dirged  by  syrens  and  the  billows'  boom, 

Or  stiffened  to  a  stock  'mid  Alpine  snows, 
Or  stricken  by  the  plague  with  sudden  doom^ 

Or  sucked  by  Vampyres  to  a  last  repose, 

Or  self-destroyed,  impatient  of  my  woes. 

"  Still  fare  you  well,  however  I  may  fare, 
A  fare  perchance  to  the  Lethean  shore, 

Caught  up  by  rushing  whirlwinds  in  the  air, 
Or  dashed  down  cataracts  with  dreadful  roar: 
Nay,  this  warm  heart,  once  yours  unto  the  core, 

This  hand  you  should  have  claimed  in  church  or  minster: 
Some  cannibal  may  gnaw  "  —  she  read  no  more  — - 

Prone  on  the  carpet  fell  the  senseless  spinster, 

Losing  herself,  as  'twere,  in  Kidderminster  ! 

Of  course  of  such  a  fall  the  shock  was  great ; 

In  rushed  the  father,  panting  from  the  shop, 
In  rushed  the  mother,  without  cap  or  tete, 

Pursued  bj  Betty  Housemaid  with  her  mop  ; 

The  cook  to  change  her  apron  did  not  stop, 
The  charwoman  next  scrambled  up  the  stair  — 

All  help  to  lift,  to  haul,  to  seat,  to  prop, 
And  then  they  stand  and  smother  round  the  chair, 
Exclaiming  in  a  chorus,  "Give  her  air  !" 

One  sears  her  nostrils  with  a  burning  feather, 

Another  rams  a  phial  up  her  nose  ; 
A  third  crooks  all  her  finger-joints  together, 

A  fourth  rips  up  her  laces  and  her  bows, 

While  all  by  turns  keep  trampling  on  her  toes, 
And,  when  she  gasps  for  breath,  they  pour  in  plump, 

A  sudden  drench  that  down  her  thorax  goes, 


LOVE    AND    LUNACY.  277 

As  if  in  fetching  her —  some  wits  so  jump  — 
She  must  be  fetched  with  water  like  a  pump ! 

No  wonder  that  thus  drenched,  and  wrenched,  and  galled, 
As  soon  as  possible,  from  syncope's  fetter 

Her  senses  had  the  sense  to  be  recalled, 

"I'm  better  —  that  will  do  —  indeed  I'm  better." 
She  cried  to  each  importunate  besetter  ; 

Meanwhile  escaping  from  the  stir  and  smother, 
The  prudent  parent  seized  the  lover's  letter, 

(Daughters  should  have  no  secrets  with  a  Mother,- 

And  read  it  through  from  one  end  to  the  other 


~o 


From  first  to  hist,  she  never  skipped  a  word  — 
For  young  Lorenzo  of  all  youths  was  one 

So  wise,  so  good,  so  moral  she  averred, 

So  clever,  quite  above  the  common  run  — 
She  made  him  sit  by  her,  and  called  him  son. 

No  matrimonial  suit,  e'en  Duke's  or  Earl's, 
So  flattered  her  maternal  feelings  —  none! 

For  mothers  always  think  young  men  are  pearls 

Who  come  and  throw  themselves  before  their  girls. 


e>" 


And  now,  at  warning  signal  from  her  finger, 
The  servants  most  reluctant lv  withdrew, 

But  listening  on  the  stairs  contrived  to  linger; 
For  Ellen,  gazing  round  with  eyes  of  blue, 

At  last  the  features  of  her  parent  knew, 
And  summoning  her  breath  and  vocal  powers. 

•■  (),  mother  '.  "  .-lie  exclaimed  —  "(),  is  it  true  — 
Our  dear  Lorenzo" —  the  dear  name  drew  showers  — 
"  <>/trs-,"  cried  the  mother.   "  pray  don't  call  him  ours! 

"I  never  liked  him.  never,  in  my  days  !" 

[•'0  yes  —  you  did''  —  said  Ellen  with  a  sob,] 


278  LOVE    AXl)    MM  \fY. 

"There  always  was  a  something  in  his  ways  — 

["  So  sweet  —  so  kind,"  said  Ellen,  with  a  throb,] 
"  His  very  face  was  what  I  call  a  snob, 

And,  spite  of  West  End  coats  and  pantaloons, 
He  had  a  sort  of  air  of  the  swell  mob  ; 

I'm  sure  when  he  has  come  of  afternoons 

To  tea,  I've  often  thought  —  I'll  Match  my  spoons ! " 

"The  spoons!"  cried  Ellen,  almost  with  a  scream, 
"O  cruel  —  false  as  cruel  —  and  unjust  ! 

He  that  once  stood  so  high  in  your  esteem  !  " 
"  He  !  "  cried  the  dame,  grimacing  her  disgust, 
'"  I  like  him  ?  —  yes  —  as  any  body  must 

An  infidel  that  scoff's  at  God  and  Devil  : 
Didn't  he  bring  you  Bonaparty's  bust? 

Lord!  when  he  calls  I  hardly  can  lie  civil  — 

My  favorite  was  always  Mr.  Neville. 

"  Lorenzo  ?  —  I  should  like,  of  earthly  thing's. 

To  see  him  hanging  forty  cubits  high  ; 
Doesn't  lie  write  like  Captain  Rocks  and  Swings? 

Nay,  in  tins  very  letter  bid  you  try 

To  make  yourself  particular,  and  tie 
A  tail  on  —  a  prodigious  tail !  —  (),  daughter! 

And  don't  lie  ask  you  down  his  area  —  fie! 
And  recommend  to  cut  your  being  shorter, 
Willi  brick-bats  round  your  neck  in  ponds  of  water?" 

Alas!  to  think  how  readers  thus  may  vary 

A  writer's  sense  !  —  What  mortal  would  have  thought 
Lorenzo's  hints  about  Professor  Airv 

And  Pond  to  such  a  likeness  could  be  brought! 

Who  would  have  dreamed  the  simple  way  he  taught 
To  make  a  comet  of  poor  Ellen's  moon. 

Could  furnish  forth  an  image  so  distraught, 


I.OVE    AXD    LUNACY.  279 

As  Ellen,  walking  Regent  Street  at  noon, 
Tailed  —  like  a  fat  Cape  sheep,  ->r  a  raccoon ! 

And  yet,  whate'er  absurdity  the  brains 

May  hatch,  it  ne'er  wants  wet-nurses  to  suckle  it ; 
Or  dry  ones,  like  a  hen,  to  take  the  pains 

To  lead  the  nudity  abroad,  and  chuckle  it ; 

No  whim  so  stupid  but  some  fool  will  buckle  it 
To  jingle  bell-like  on  his  empty  head, 

No  mental  mud — but  some  will  knead  and  knuckle  it, 
And  fancy  they  are  making  fancy-bread  ;  — 
No  ass  has  written,  but  some  ass  has  read. 

No  dolts  could  lead  if  others  did  not  follow  'em. 

No  Hahnemann  could  give  decillionth  drops 
If  any  man  could  not  be  got  to  swallow  'em; 

But  folly  never  comes  to  such  full  stops. 

As  soon,  then,  as  the  Mother  made  such  swaps 
Of  all  Lorenzo's  meanings,  heads  and  tails, 

The  Father  seized  upon  her  malaprops  — 
"  My  giri  down  areas  —  of  a  nighl  !     'Ods  nails  ! 

I'll  stick  the  scoundrel  on  his  area-rails  ! 

"  I  will !  —  as  sure  as  I  Mas  christened  John ! 

A  girl  —  well   born  — and    bred  — and    schooled   at 
Ditton  — 
Accomplished — handsome  —  with  a  tail  stuck  on  ! 

And  chucked  —  Zounds !  chucked  in  horseponds  like 
a  kitten  ; 

I  wish  I  had  been  by  when  thai  was  written!  "  — 
And  doubling  to  a  fisl  each  ample  hand, 

The  empty  air  lie  boxed  with,  a  la  Hritton, 
As  if  in  training  for  a  fight  long  planned. 
With  Nobody— for  love  — at  No  Man's  Land! 


280  LOVE    AND    LUNACY. 

"  I'll  pond  —  I'll  tail  him  ! "     In  a  voice  of  thunder 

He  recommenced  his  fury  and  his  fuss, 
Loud,  open-mouthed,  and  wedded  to  his  blunder, 

Like  one  of  those  great  guns  that  end  in  buss. 

"I'll  teach  him  to  write  ponds  and  tails  to  us! " 
But  while  so  menacing  this-that-and-t'others, 

His  wife  broke  in  with  certain  truths,  as  thus : 
"  Men  are  not  women  —  fathers  can't  be  mothers  — 
Females  are  females  "  —  and  a  few  such  others. 

So  saying,  with  rough  nudges,  willy-nilly, 
She  hustled  him  outside  the  chamber-door, 

Looking,  it  must  be  owned,  a  little  silly  ; 
And  then  she  did  as  the  Carinthian  boor 
Serves  (Goldsmith  says)  the  traveller  that's  poor: 

LI  est,  she  shut  him  in  the  outer  space, 
With  just,  as  much  apology  —  no  more  — 

As  Boreas  would  present  in  such  a  case, 

For  slamming  the  street  door  right  in  your  face. 

Andmow  the  secrets  of  the  sex  thus  kept. 

What  passed  in  that  important  tete-a-tete 
'Twixt  dam  and  daughter,  nobody  except 

Paul  Pry,  or  his  Twin  Brother,  could  narrate  — 

So  turn  we  to  Lorenzo,  left  of  late 
In  front  of  Mrs.  Snelling's  sugared  snacks, 

La  such  a  very  waspish  stinging  state — 
But  now  at  the  Old  1  )ragon.  stretched  on  racks, 
Fretting,  and  biting  down  his  nails  to  tacks; 

Because  that  new  fast  four-inside  —  the  Comet, 
Instead  of  keeping  its  appointed  time, 

But  deviated  some  few  minutes  from  it, 
A  tmng  with  all  astronomers  a  crime, 
Aim!  he  had  studied  in  that  lore  sublime; 


L0YE    AND    LUNACY.  281 

Nor  did  his  heat  get  any  less  or  shorter 

For  pouring  upon  passion's  unslacked  lime 
A  well-grown  glass  of  Cogniac  and  water, 
Mixed  stiff  as  starch  by  the  Old  Dragon's  daughter. 

At  length,  "  Fair  Ellen  "  sounding  with  a  nourish, 
The  Comet  came  all  bright,  bran  new,  and  smarts 

Meanwhile  the  melody  conspired  to  nourish 
The  hasty  spirit  in  Lorenzo's  heart, 
And  soon  upon  the  roof  he  "  topped  his  part," 

Which  never  had  a  more  impatient  man  on, 
Wishing  devoutly  that  the  steeds  would  start 

Like  lightning  greased  —  or,  as  at  Ballyshannon 

Sublimed,  "  greased  lightning  shot  out  of  a  cannon !  ** 


For,  ever  since  the  letter  left  his  hand, 
His  mind  had  been  in  vascillating  motion, 

Dodge-dodging  like  a  flustered  crab  on  land, 
That  cannot  ask  its  way,  and  lias  no  notion 
If  right  or  left  leads  to  the  German  Ocean  — 

Hatred  and  Love  by  turns  enjoyed  monopolies, 
Till,  like  a  Doctor  following  his  own  potion, 

Before  a  learned  pig  could  spell  Acropolis, 

He  went  and  booked  himself  for  our  metropolis. 

"  O,  for  a  horse,"  or  rather  four  —  "  with  wings  ! " 

For  so  he  put  his  wish  into  the  plural  — 
No  relish  he  retained  for  country  things, 

il    could  notjoin  felicity  with  rural, 

His  thoughts  were  all  with  London  and  the  mural, 
V\'h<  hitects —  not    paupers  — heap    and    \>Uc 

stones  : 

Or  with  the  horses'  muscles,  called  the  crural, 
'!"\v  fast  they  could  macadamize  the  milestones 
Which  passed  as  tediously  as  gall  or  bile  stones. 
24  ' 


282  LOVE    AND    LUNACY. 

Blind  to  the  picturesque,  lie  ne'er  perceived 

In  Nature  one  artistical  fine  stroke; 
For  instance,  how  that  purple  hill  relieved 

The  beggar-woman  in  the  gypsy-poke, 

And  how  the  red  cow  carried  off  her  cioak ; 
Or  how  the  aged  horse,  so  gaunt  and  gray, 

Threw  off  a  noble  mass  of  beech  and  oak ! 
Or  how  the  tinker's  ass,  beside  the  way, 
Came  boldly  out  from  a  white  cloud  —  to  bray! 

Such  things  have  no  delight  for  worried  men, 
That  travel  full  of  cart  and  anxious  smart: 

Coachmen  and  horses  are  your  artists  then  ; 
Just  try  a  team  of  draughtsmen  with  the  Dart, 
Take  Shee,  for  instance,  Etty,  Jones,  and  Hart, 

Let  every  neck  be  put  into  its  noose, 

Then  tip  'em  on  the  flank  to  make  'em  start, 

And  see  how  they  will  draw  .  —  Four  screws  let  loose 

Would  make  a  difference—  or  I'm  a  goose  — 

Nor  cared  he  more  about  the  promised  crops, 

If  oats  were  looking  up,  or  wheat  was  laid, 
For  flies  in  turnips,  or  a  blight  in  hops, 

Or  how  the  barley  prospered  or  decayed; 

In  short,  no  items  of  the  farming  trade, 
Feas,  beans,  lares,  'taters,  could  his  mind  beguile; 

Nor  did  he  answer  to  the  servant-maid, 
That  always  asked  at  every  other  mile, 
"  Where  do  we  change,  sir  P"  with  her  sweetest  smile. 

Nor  more  lie  listened  to  the  Politician, 
Who  lectured  on  bis  left,  a  formal  prig, 

Of  Belgium's,  Greece's,  Turkey's  sad  condition, 
Nut  worth  a  cheese,  an  olive,  or  a  fig, 
Nor  yet  unto  the  critic,  fierce  and  big, 


LOVE    AND    LUNACY.  283 

Who,  holding  forth,  all  lonely,  in  his  glory, 

Called  one  a  sad  bad  Poet  —  and  a  Whig, 
And  one,  a  first-rate  proser  —  and  a  Tory; 
So  critics  judge,  now,  of  a  song  or  story. 

Nay,  when  the  coachman  spoke  about  the  'Leger, 
Of  Popsy,  Mopsy,  Bergamotte,  and  Civet, 

Of  breeder,  trainer,  owner,  backer,  hedger, 
And  nags  as  right,  or  righter  than  a  trivet, 
The  theme  his  cracked  attention  could  not  rivet ; 

Though  leaning  forward  to  the  man  of  whips, 
He  seemed  to  give  an  ear  —  but  did  not  give  it, 

For  Ellen's  moon  (that  saddest  of  her  slips) 

Would  not  be  hidden  by  a  "  new  Eclipse." 

If  any  thought  e'er  flitted  in  his  head 

Belonging  to  the  sphere  of  Bland  and  Crocky, 

It  was  to  wish  the  team  all  thorough-bred, 
And  every  buckle  on  their  backs  a  jockey  : 
When  spinning  down  a  steep  descent,  or  rocky, 

He  never  watched  the  wheel,  and  longed  to  lock  it, 
He  liked  the  bolters  that  set  off  so  cocky, 

Nor  did  it  shake  a  single  nerve  or  shock  it, 

Because  the  Comet  raced  against  the  Rocket. 

Thanks  to  which  rivalry,  at  list  the  journey 
Finished  an  hour  and  a  quarter  under  time, 

Without  a  case  I'm-  surgeon  or  attorney. 
Just  as  St.  James's  rang  its  seventh  chime. 

And  now.  descending  from  his  seat  sublime, 
Behold  Lorenzo,  weariest  of  wights, 
In  that  greal  core  <>f  brick,  and  stone,  and  lime, 

Called  England's  Heart  —  but  which,  as  seen  of  nights, 

Has  rather  more  the  appearance  of  its  lights. 


2S  1  l.OVi:    AMI    LUNACY. 

Away  he  scudded  —  elbowing,  perforce, 

Through  cads,  and  lads,  and  many  a  Hebrew  worrier, 
With  fruit,  knives,  pencils  —  all  dirl  cieap,  of  course, 

Coachmen,  and  hawkers,  of  the  Globe  and  "Currier;" 

Away!  the  cookmaid  is  not  such  a  skurrier, 
When,  fit  to  split  her  gingham  as  she  goes, 

With  six  just  striking  on  the  clock  to  hurry  her, 
She  strides  along  with  one  of  her  three  beaux, 
To  get  well  placed  at  "Ashley's  ''  —  now  Ducrow's. 

"  I  wonder  if  the  moon  is  full  to-night !  " 

He  muttered,  jealous  as  a  Spanish  Don, 
When,  lo !  to  aggravate  that  inward  spite, 

In  glancing  at  a  board  he  spied  thereon 

A  play-bill  for  dramatic  folks  to  con, 
In  letters  such  as  those  may  read,  who  run, 

"  '  KING  JOHN'— 0  yes  —  T  recollect  King  John  ! 
'  My  Lord,  they  say  five  moons  '  — Jive  moons  !  well  done ! 
1  wonder  Ellen  was  content  with  one  ! 

"  Five  moons  —  all  full !  and  all  at  once  in  heaven ! 

She  should  have  lived  in  that  prolific  reign  ! ?' 
Here  he  arrived  in  front  of  number  seven, 

The  abode  of  all  his  joy  and  all  his  pain; 

A  sudden  tremor  shot  through  every  vein, 
He  wished  he'd  come  up  by  the  heavy  wagon, 

And  felt  an  impulse  to  turn  back  again, 
0,  that  he  ne'er  bad  quitted  the  Old  Dragon! 
Then  came  a  sort  of  longing  for  a  flagon. 

His  tongue  and  palate  seemed  so  parched  with  drouth  — 
The  very  knocker  filled  bis  soul  with  dread, 

As  if  it  bad  a  living  lion's  mouth, 

With  teeth  so  terrible,  and  tongue  so  red, 
In  which  he  had  engaged  to  put  his  bead. 


LOVE    AND    LUNACY.  285 

The  befl-pull  turned  his  courage  into  vapor, 

As  though  'twould  cause  a  shower-bath  to  shed 
Its  thousand  shocks,  to  make  him  sigh  and  caper  — 
He  looked  askance,  and  did  not  like  the  scraper. 

"What  business  have  I  here  ?  (he  thought)  a  dunce 
A  hopeless  passion  thus  to  fan  and  foster, 

Instead  of  putting  out  its  wick  at  once  : 

She's  gone  —  it's  very  evident  I've  lost  her  — 

And  to  the  wanton  wind  I  should  have  tossed  her  — 

Pish  !  I  will  leave  her  with  her  moon,  at  ease, 
To  toast  and  eat  it,  like  a  single  Gloster, 

Or  cram  some  fool  with  it,  as  good  green  cheese, 

Or  make  a  honey-moon,  if  so  she  please. 

"  Yes  —  here  I  leave  her ;  "  and  as  thus  he  spoke, 

He  plied  the  knocker  witli  such  needless  force, 
It  almost  split  the  panne!  of  sound  oak; 

And  then  he  went  as  wildly  through  a  course 

Of  ringing,  till  he  made  abrupt  divorce 
Between  the  bell  and  its  dumbfounded  handle  ; 

While  up  ran  Hetty,  out  of  breath  and  hoarse, 
And  thrust  into  his  face  her  blown-out  candle, 
To  recognize  the  author  of  such  scandal. 

Who,  presto  !  cloak,  and  carjiet-ba^  to  boot, 

Went  stumbling,  rumbling,  up  the  dark  one  pair, 

With  other  noise  than  his  whose  "  very  foot 
Had  music  iu't  as  lie  came  up  the  stair:*' 
And  then  with  no  more  manners  than  a  bear, 

His  hal  upon  his  head,  no  matti  r  how, 
\u  modest  tap  his  presence  to  declare, 

He  bolted  in  a  room,  without  a  bow. 

And  there  sal  Ellen,  with  a  marble  brow' 


286  LOVE    AND    LUNACY. 

Like  fond  Medora,  watching  at  her  window, 

Yet  not  of  any  Corsair  hark  in  search  — 
The  jutting  lodging-house  of  Mrs.  Lindo, 

"The  Cheapest  House  in  Town  "  of  Todd  and  Sturch. 

The  private  house  of  Reverend  Doctor  Birch, 
The  public-house,  closed  nightly  at  eleven, 

And  then  that  house  of  prayer,  the  parish  church, 
Some  roofs  and  chimneys,  and  a  glimpse  of  heaven, 
Made  up  the  whole  look-out  of  Number  Seven. 

Yet  something  in  the  prospect  so  absorbed  her, 

She  seemed  quite  drowned  and  dozing  in  a  dream ; 

As  if  her  own  beloved  full  moon  still  orbed  her, 
Lulling  her  fancy  in  some  lunar  scheme, 
With  lost  Lorenzo,  may  be,  for  its  theme  — 

Yet  when  Lorenzo  touched  her  on  the  shoulder, 
She  started  up  with  an  abortive  scream, 

As  if  some  midnight  ghost,  from  regions  colder, 

Had  come  within  his  bony  arms  to  fold  her. 

"Lorenzo!" — "Ellen!" — then    came    "Sir!"    and 
"  Madam  !  " 

They  tried  to  speak,  but  hammered  at  each  word, 
As  if  it  were  a  flint  for  great  Mac  Adam  ; 

Such  broken  English  never  else  was  heard, 

For  like  an  aspen  leaf  each  nerve  was  stirred, 
A  chilly  tremor  thrilled  them  through  and  through, 

Their  efforts  to  l;e  stiff  were  quite  absurd, 
They  shook  like  jellies  made  without  a  due 

And  proper  share  of  common  joiner's  glue. 

u  Ellen  !  I'm  come  —  to  bid  you  —  fare  —  farewell ;  " 
They  thus  began  to  fight  their  verbal  duel; 

u  Since   some   more    hap  —  hap  —  happy    man    must 
dwell  —  " 
"  Alas  —  Loren  —  Lorenzo  !  —  cru  —  cru  —  cruel !  " 


LOVE    AND    LUNACY.  287 

For  so  they  split  their  words  like  grits  for  gruel. 
At  last  the  Lover,  as  he  long  had  planned, 

Drew  out  that  once  inestimable  jewel, 
Her  portrait,  which  was  erst  so  fondly  scanned, 
And  thrust  poor  Ellen's  face  into  her  hand. 

"  There  —  take  it,  Madam  —  take  it  back,  I  crave, 
The  face  of  one  —  but  I  must  now  forget  her  ; 

Bestow  it  on  whatever  hapless  slave 

Your  art  has  last  enticed  into  your  fetter  — 
And  there  are  your  epistles  —  there  !  each  letter ! 

I  wish  no  record  of  your  vows'  infractions ; 

Send  them  to  South  —  or  Children — you  had  better-. 

They  will  be  novelties  —  rare  benefactions 

Tii  shine  in  Philosophical  Transactions! 

"Take  them  —  pray  take  them  —  I  resign  them  quite  ! 

And  there's  the  glove  you  gave  me  leave  to  steal  — 
And  there's  the  handkerchief,  so  pure  and  white, 

Once  sanctified  bj  tears,  when  Miss  O'Neill  — 

But  no  —  you  did  not  —  cannot  —  do  not  feel 
A  Juliet's  faith,  that  time  could  only  harden! 

Fool  that  1  was,  in  my  mistaken  zeal ! 
I  should  have  led  you  — ■  by  your  leave  and  pardon — - 
'I'o  Hartley's  Orrery,  not  Covent  Garden! 

"  Ami  here's  the  birth-day  ring  —  nor  man  nor  de  ""1 
Should  once  have  torn  it  from  my  living  hand; 

Perchance  'twill  look  as  well  on  Mr.  Neville  ; 
And  that  —  and  that  is  all  —  and  now  I  stand 
Absolved  of  each  dissevered  tie  and  hand  — 

And  su  farewell,  till  Tine  ,1  sickle 

Shall  reap  our  lives  ;   in  this,  or  foreign  land 

Some  other  maj  be  found  for  truth  to  stickle, 

Almost  as  fair,  and  not  SO  false  and  tickle!" 


288  LOVE    AND    LUNACY. 

And  there  he  ceased,  as  truly  it  was  time ; 

For  of  the  various  themes  that  left  his  mouth, 
One  half  surpassed  her  intellectual  climb  : 

She  knew  no  more  than  the  old  Hill  of  Howth 

About  that  "  Children  of  a  larger  growth," 
Who  notes  proceedings  of  the  F.  R.  S.'s ; 

Kit  North  was  just  as  strange  to  her  as  South, 
Except  the  South  the  weathercock  expresses ; 
Nay,  Bartley's  Orrery  defied  her  guesses. 

Howbeit  some  notion  of  his  jealous  drift 
She  gathered  from  the  simple  outward  fact 

That  her  own  lap  contained  each  slighted  gift ; 
Though  quite  unconscious  of  his  cause  to  act 
So  like  Othello,  with  his  face  unblacked  ; 

"  Alas !  "  she  sobbed,  "  your  cruel  course  I  see 
These  faded  charms  no  longer  can  attract ; 

Your  fancy  palls,  and  you  would  wander  free, 

And  lay  your  own  apostasy  on  me ! 

"  /  false  !  —  unjust  Lorenzo  !  —  and  to  you  ! 

O,  all  ye  holy  gospels  that  incline 
The  soul  to  truth,  bear  witness  I  am  true ! 

By  all  that  lives,  of  earthly  or  divine  — 

So  long  as  this  poor  throbbing  heart  is  mine  — 
I  false  !  —  the  world  shall  change  its  course  as  soon.' 

True  as  the  streamlet  to  the  stars  that  shine  — 
True  as  the  dial  to  the  sun  at  noon, 
True  as  the  tide  to  'yonder  blessed  moon'!" 

And  as  she  spoke,  she  pointed  through  the  window, 
Somewhere  above  the  houses'  distant  tops, 

Betwixt  the  chimney-pots  of  .Mrs.  Lindo, 
And  Todd  and  Sturch's  cheapest  of  all  shops 
For  ribbons,  laces,  muslins,  silks,  and  fops;  — 


MORNING    MEDITATIONS.  289 

Meanwhile,  as  she  upraised  her  face  so  Grecian. 

And  eyes  suffused  with  scintillating  drops, 
Lorenzo  looked,  too,  o'er  the  blinds  Venetian, 
To  sec  the  sphere  so  troubled  with  repletion. 

"  The  Moon  !  "  he  cried,  and  an  electric  spasm 
Seemed  all  at  once  his  features  to  distort, 

And  fixed  his  mouth,  a  dumb  and  gaping  chasm  — 
His  faculties  benumbed  and  all  amort  — 
At  last  his  voice  came,  of  most  shrilly  sort, 

Just  like  a  sea-gull's  wheeling  round  a  rock  — 

"  Speak  !  —  Ellen  !  —  is  your  sight  indeed  so  short! 

The  Moon  !  —  Unite  !  savage  that,  I  am,  and  block  ! 

The  Moon  !     (0,  ye  Romantics,  what  a  shock  !) 

Why,  that's  the  new  Illuminated  Clock!  " 


MORNING   MEDITATIONS. 

Let  Taylor  preach,  upon  a  morning  breezy, 

How  well  to  rise  while  nights  and  larks  are  flying; 
For  my  part,  getting  up  seems  not  so  easy 
By  half  as  lying. 

What  if  the  lark  does  carol  in  the  sky, 
Soaring  beyond  the  sight  to  find  him  out  — 
Wh  refore  am  I  to  rise  at  such  a  fly? 
I'm  not  a  trout. 

Talk  not  to  me  of  bees  and  such-like  hums. 
The  smell  of  sw,rt  herbs  at  the  morning  prime- 
Only  lie  long  enough,  and  bed  becomes 

A  bed  of  Huh  . 

25 


290 


HORNING    MEDITATIONS. 


To  me  Dan  Phoebus  and  his  car  are  nought, 
His  steeds  that  paw  impatiently  about; 
Let  them  enjoy,  say  I,  as  horses  ought, 
The  first  turn-out ! 


Right  beautiful  the  dewy  meads  appear, 
Besprinkled  by  the  rosy-fingered  girl ; 
What  then,  —  if  I  prefer  my  pillow-beer 
To  early  pearl  ? 

My  stomach  is  not  ruled  by  other  men's, 
And,  grumbling  for  a  reason,  quaintly  begs 
Wherefore  should  master  rise  before  the  hens 
Have  laid  their  eggs  ? 

Why  from  a  comfortable  pillow  start 
To  see  faint  flushes  in  the  east  awaken? 
A  fig,  say  I,  for  any  streaky  par* 
Excepting  bacon. 

.  ^n  early  riser  Mr.  Gray  has  drawn, 
Who  used  to  haste  the  dewy  grass  among, 
"To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn," — ■ 
Well  —  he  died  young. 

With  charwomen  such  early  hours  agree, 
And  sweeps  that  earn  betimes  their  bit  and  supj 
But  I'm  no  climbing  boy,  and  need  not  be 
All  up  —  all  up  ! 

So  here  I  lie,  my  morning  calls  deferring, 
Till  something  nearer  to  the  stroke  of  noon  ;  — 
A  man  that's  fond  precociously  of  stirring, 
Must  be  a  spoon. 


A    TALE    OF    A    TRUMPET.  291 


A  TALE   OF   A  TRUMPET. 

"Old  woman,  old  woman,  will  you  go  a-sbearing? 
Speak  a  little  louder,  for  I'm  very  hard  of  hearing." 

Old  L.iiiAft 

Of  all  old  women  hard  of  hearing, 

The  deafest,  sure,  was  Dame  Eleanor  Spearing! 

On  her  head,  it  is  true, 

Two  flaps  there  grew, 
That  served  for  a  pair  of  gold  rings  to  go  through  ; 
But  for  any  purpose  of  ears  in  a  parley, 
They  heard  no  more  than  ears  of  barley. 

No  hint  was  needed  from  ]).  E.  F. 

You  saw  in  her  face  that  the  woman  was  deaf: 

From  her  twisted  mouth  to  her  eyes  so  peery, 

Each  queer  feature  asked  a  query; 

A  look  that  said,  in  a  silent  way, 

"Who?  and  What  P  and  How?  and  Eh? 

I'd  give  my  ears  to  know  what  you  saj  ! 

And  well  she  might  !   for  each  auricular 

Was  deaf  as  a  posl  —and  that  post  in  particular 

That  stands  at  the  corner  of  Dyott-strcct  now, 

And  never  hears  a  word  of  a  row  ! 

Ears  that  mighl  serve  her  now  and  then 

As  extempore  racks  for  an  idle  pen; 

Or  to  hang  with  hoops  from  jewellers'  shops, 

Wiih  coral,  ruby,  or  garnet  drop-  ; 

Or,  provided  tin'  owner  so  inclined, 

Ears  to  stick  a  blister  behind  ; 

lint  as  for  hearing  wisdom  or  wit, 

Falsehood,  or  folly,  or  tell-tale-tit, 


202 


A    TALE    OF    A    TRUMrET. 


Or  politics,  whether  of  Fox  or  Pitt, 

Sermon,  lecture,  or  musical  bit, 

Harp,  piano,  fiddle,  or  kit, 

They  might  as  well,  for  any  such  wish, 

Have  been  buttered,  done  brown,  and  laid  in  a  dish! 

She  was  deaf  as  a  post,  —  as  said  before, — 

And  as  deaf  as  twenty  similes  more, 

Including  the  adder,  that  deafest  of  snakes, 

Which  never  hears  the  coil  it  makes. 


She  was  deaf  as  a  house  —  which  modern  tricks 
Of  language  would  call  as  deaf  as  bricks  — 
For  her  all  human  kind  were  dumb  ; 
Her  drum,  indeed,  was  so  muffled  a  drum, 
That  none  could  get  a  sound  to  come, 
Unless  the  Devil  who  had  Two  Sticks! 
She  was  deaf  as  a  stone  —  say  one  of  the  stones 
Demosthenes  sucked  to  improve  his  tones  ; 
And  surely  deafness  no  further  could  reach 
Than  to  be  in  his  mouth  withcul  hearing  his  speech! 
She  was  deaf  as  a  nut  —  for  nuts,  no  doubt, 
Are  deaf  to  the  grub  that's  hollowing  out  — 
As  deaf,  alas  !  as  the  dead  and  forgotten  — 
(Gray  has  noticed  the  waste  of  breath 
In  addressing  the  "  dull,  cold  ear  of  death,") 
Or  the  Felon's  ear,  that  Mas  stuffed  with  Cotton  — 
Or  Charles  the  First,  in  statue  quo; 
Or  the  still-born  figures  of  Madame  Tussaud, 
With  their  eyes  of  glass,  and  their  hair  of  flax, 
That  only  stare,  whatever  you  "  ax," 
For  their  ears,  you  know,  are  nothing  but  wax. 

She  was  deaf  as  the  ducks  that  swam  in  the  pond, 
And  wouldn't  listen  to  Mrs.  Bond,  — 


A    TALE    OF    A    TRUMPET.  2'J3 

As  deaf  as  any  Frenchman  appears, 

"When  he  puts  his  shoulders  into  Ins  ears : 

And  —  whatever  the  citizen  tells  his  son  — 

As  deaf  as  Gog  and  Magog  at  one  ! 

Or,  still  to  he  a  simile-seeker, 

As  deaf  as  dog's-ears  to  Enfield's  Speaker ! 

She  was  deaf  as  any  tradesman's  dummy, 
Or  as  Pharaoh's  mother's  mother's  mummy  ; 
Whose  organs,  for  fear  of  our  modern  sceptics, 
Were  plugged  with  gums  and  antiseptics. 

She  was  deaf  as  a  nail — -that  you  cannot  hammer 
A  meaning  into,  for  all  your  clamor  — 
There  never  was  such  a  deaf  old  Gammer! 

So  formed  to  worry 

Both  Lindley  and  Murray, 
By  having  no  ear  fir  music  or  grammar  ! 

Deaf  to  sounds,  as  a  ship  out  of  soundings, 
Deaf  to  verbs,  and  all  their  compoundings, 
Adjective,  noun,  and  adverb,  and  particle, 
Deaf  to  even  the  definite  article  — 
No  verbal  message  was  worth  a  pin, 
Though  you  hired  an  earwig  to  carry  it  in ! 

In  short,  she  was  twice  as  deaf  as  Deaf  Burke, 

Or  all  the  deafness  in  Yearsley's  Work, 

Who.  in  spite  "!'  his  skill  in  hardness  of  hearing, 
Boring,  blasting,  and  pioneering, 
To  :  dunny  organ  a  clearing.  # 

Could  never  have  cured  I). one  Eleanor  Spearing. 

Of  course  the  loss  was  a  great  privation, 

For  one  of  her  sex  —  whatever  her  station  — 

And  none  the  less  that  the  dame  had  a  turn 


294  A    TALE    OF    A    TRUMi'ET. 

For  making  all  families  one  concern, 
And  learning  whatever  there  was  to  Irani 

In  the  prattling,  tattling  village  of  Tringham 

As  who  wore  silk  ?  and  who  wore  gingham  ? 

And  what  the  Atkins's  shop  might  bring  'cm  ? 

How  the  Smiths  contrived  to  live  ?  and  whether 

The  fourteen  Murphys  all  pigged  together? 

The  wages  per  week  of  the  Weavers  and  Skinners, 

And  what  they  boiled  for  their  Sunday  dinners  ? 

What  plates  the  Bugsbys  had  on  the  shelf, 

Crockery,  china,  wooden,  or  delf  ? 

And  if  the  parlor  of  Mrs.  O'Grady 

Had  a  wicked  French  print,  or  Death  and  the  Lady  ? 

Did  Snip  and  his  wife  continue  to  jangle? 

Had  Mrs.  Wilkinson  sold  her  mangle  ? 

What  liquor  was  drunk  by  Jones  and  Brown  ? 

And  the  weekly  score  they  ran  up  at  the  Crown  ? 

If  the  cobbler  could  read,  and  believed  in  the  Pope? 

And  how  the  Grubbs  were  off  for  soap  ? 

If  the  Snobbs  had  furnished  their  room  up  stairs, 

And  how  they  managed  for  tables  and  chairs, 

Beds,  and  other  household  affairs, 

Iron,  wooden,  and  Staffordshire  wares; 

And  if  they  could  muster  a  whole  pair  of  bellows  ? 
In  fact  she  had  much  of  the  spirit  that  lies 
Perdu  in  a  notable  set  of  Paul  Prys, 

By  courtesy  called  Statistical  Fellows  — 
A  prying,  spying,  inquisitive  clan. 
Who  had  gone  upon  much  of  the  self-same  plan, 

Jotting  the  laboring  class's  riches  ; 
And  after  poking  in  pot  and  pan, 

And  routing  garments  in  want  of  stitches, 
Have  ascertained  that  a  working  man 

Wears  a  ])ujr  ailj  a  quarter  of  average  breeches! 


A    TALE    OF    A    TKUMPBT  295 

But  this,  alas  !  from  her  loss  of  hearing 

Was  all  a  sealed  book  to  I  lame  Eleanor  Spearing ; 
And  often  her  tears  would  rise  to  their  founts  — 

Supposing  a  little  scandal  at  play 

Twixt  Mrs.  O'Fie  and  Mrs.  Au  Fait  — 

That  she  couldn't  audit  the  gossips'  accounts. 

Tis  true,  to  her  cottage  still  they  came, 

And  ate  her  muffins  just  the  same, 

And  drank  the  tea  of  the  widowed  dame, 
And  never  swallowed  a  thimble  the  less 
Of  something  the  reader  is  left  to  guess, 
For  all  the  deafness  of  Mrs.  S., 

Who  saw  them  talk,  and  chuckle,  and  cough, 
But  to  see  and  not  share  in  the  social  now, 
She  might  as  well  have  lived,  you  know, 
In  one  of  the  houses  in  Owen's  Bow, 

Near  the  New  River  Head,  with  its  water  cut  off! 

And  vet  the  almond-oil  she  had  tried, 
And  fifty  infallible  things  beside, 
Hot,  and  cold,  and  thick,  and  thin, 
Dabbed,  and  dribbled,  and  squirted  in: 
But  all  remedies  tailed;  and  though  some  it,  was  cleat 
(Like  the  brandy  and  salt 
We  now  exalt) 
Had  made  a  noise  in  the  public  ear, 
She  was  just  as  deaf  as  ever,  poor  dear. 

• 
At  last  —  one  very  fine  day  in  June  — 

Suppose  her  Bitting, 
Busily  knitting, 
And  humming  she  didn't  quite  know  what  tune, 
For  nothing  she  heard  but  a  sort  of  a  whizz, 
Which,  unless  the  sound  of  a  circulation, 
Or  of  thoughts  in  the  process  of  fabrication, 


2'JG  ■*■    TALE    OF    A    XRTJMPET. 

By  a  spinning-jennyish  operation, 

It's  hard  to  say  what  buzzing  it  is. 
However,  except  that  ghost  of  a  sound, 
She  sat  in  a  silence  most  profound  — 
The  cat  was  purring  about  the  mat, 
But  her  mistress  heard  no  more  of  that 
Than  if  it  had  been  a  boatswain's  cat  ; 
And  as  Cor  the  clock  the  moments  nicking, 
The  dame  only  gave  it  credit  for  ticking. 
The  hark  of  her  clog  she  did  not  catch  ; 
Nor  yet  the  click  of  the  lifted  latch  ; 
Nor  yet  the  creak  of  the  opening  door  ; 
Nor  yet  the  fall  of  the  foot  on  the  floor  — 
But  she  saw  the  shadow  that  crept  on  her  gown, 
And  turned  its  skirt  of  a  darker  brown. 

And,  lo  !  a  man  !  a  pedler  ?  ay,  marry, 

With  a  little  back-shop  that  such  tradesmen  carry, 

Stocked  with  brooches,  ribbons,  and  lings, 

Spectacles,  razors,  and  other  odd  things, 

For  lad  and  lass,  as  Autolycus  sings  ; 

A  chapman  for  goodness  and  cheapness  of  ware 

Held  a  fair  dealer  enough  at  a  fair, 

But  deemed  a  piratical  sort  of  invader 

By  him  we  dub  the  "  regular  trader," 

Who,  luring  the  passengers  in  as  they  pass 

By  lamps,  gay  panels,  and  mouldings  of  brass, 

And  windows  with  only  one  huge  pane  of  glass, 

And  his  name  in  gilt  characters,  German  or  lloman, 

If  he  isn't  a  pedler,  at  least  is  a  showman  ! 

However,  in  the  stranger  came, 

And,  the  moment  he  met  the  eyes  of  the  dame, 

Threw  her  as  knowing  a  nod  as  though 

He  had  known  her  flftj  long  years  ag  >; 


A   TALE   OF    A    TRUMPET.  297 

And,  presto  !  before  she  could  utter  "  Jack  "  — 
Much  less  "  Robinson  "  —  opened  his  pack  — 

And  then  from  amongst  his  portable  gear, 
With  even  more  than  a  pedler's  tact,  — 
(Slick  himself  might  have  envied  the  act)  - 
Before  she  had  time  to  be  deaf,  in  fact, 

Popped  a  trumpet  into  her  ear. 

"  There,  ma'am  !  try  it ! 

You  needn't  buy  it  — 
The  last  new  patent  —  and  nothing  comes  nigh  it 
For  affording  the  deaf,  at  little  expense, 
The  sense  of  hearing,  and  bearing  of  sense  ! 
A  real  blessing  — and  no  mistake, 
Invented  for  poor  humanity's  sake  ; 
For  what  can  be  a  greater  privation 
Than  playing  dummy  to  all  creation, 
And  only  looking  at  conversation  — 
Great  philosophers  talking  like  Platos, 
And  members  of  Parliament  moral  as  Catos, 
And  your  ears  as  dull  as  waxy  potatoes! 
Not  to  name  the  mischievous  quizzers, 
Sharp  as  knives,  but  double  as  scissors, 
Who  get  you  to  answer  quite  by  guess 
Yes  for  no,  and  no  for  yes." 
("That's  very  true,"  says  Dame  Eleanor  S.) 

'•  Try  it  again  !      No  harm  in  trying  — 

bin  sure  you'll  find  it  worth  your  buying. 

A  little  practice  — that  is  all  — 

And  you'll  hear  a  whisper,  however  small, 

Through  an  Acl  of  Parliament  party  wall, — 

Ever)   syllable  clear  as  d  i\. 

And  even  what  people  are  going  to  saj  — 


298  A  TAU:   0F  A   TB.UMPBT. 

I  wouldn't  tell  a  lie,  I  wouldn't, 

But  my  trumpets  have  heard  what  Solomon's  couldn't; 
And  as  for  Scott,  he  promises  line, 
But  can  he  warrant  his  horns,  like  mine, 

Never  to  hear  what  a  lady  shouldn't  ?  — 
Only  a  guinea —  and  can't  take  less." 
(''That's  very  dear,"  says  Dame  Eleanor  S.) 

"  Dear!  —  O  dear,  to  call  it  dear ! 
Why  it  isn't  a  horn  you  buy,  but  an  ear ; 
Only  think,  and  you'll  find  on  reflection 
You're  bargaining,  ma'am,  for  the  Voice  of  Affection  ; 
For  the  language  of  Wisdom,  and  Virtue,  and  Truth, 
And  the  sweet  little  innocent  prattle  of  youth; 
Not  to  mention  the  striking  of  clocks  — 
Cackle  of  hens  —  crowing  of  cocks  — 
Lowing  of  cow,  and  bull,  and  ox  — 
Bleating  of  pretty  pastoral  flocks  — 
Murmur  of  waterfall  over  the  rocks  — 
Every  sound  that  Echo  mocks  — 
Vocals,  fiddles,  and  musical-box  — 
And,  zounds !  to  call  such  a  concert  dear  ! 
But  1  mustn't  swear  with  my  horn  in  your  ear. 
Why.  in  buying  that  trumpet  you  buy  all  those 
Thai  Harper,  or  any  trumpeter,  blows 
At  the  Queen's  levees,  or  the  Lord  .Mayor's  shows, 
At  least  as  Car  as  the  music  goes, 
Including  the  wonderful  lively  sound 
Of  the  Guards'  key-bugles  all  the  year  round. 
Come  —  suppose  we  call  it  a  pound! 
Come."  said  the  talkative  man  of  the  pack, 
"  Before  I  put  my  box  on  my  back, 
For  this  elegant,  useful  conductor  of  sound, 
Come  —  suppose  we  call  it  a  pound! 


A    TALE    OF    A    TRUMPET.  299 

"  Only  a  pound !  it's  only  the  price 
Of  hearing  a  concert  once  or  twice, 

It's  only  the  fee 

You  might  give  Mr.  O, 
And  after  all  not  hear  his  advice, 
But  common  prudence  would  hid  you  stump  it ; 

For,  not  to  enlarge, 

It's  the  regular  charge 
At  a  fancy  fair  for  a  penny  trumpet. 
Lord  !  what's  a  pound  to  the  blessing  of  hearing !  " 
("  A  pound's  a  pound,"  said  Dame  Eleanor  Spearing.) 

"  Try  it  again  !  no  harm  in  trying  ! 

A  pound's  a  pound,  there's  no  denying; 

But  think  what  thousands  and  thousands  of  pounds 

We  pay  for  nothing  hut  hearing  sounds ; 

Sounds  of  equity,  justice,  and  law, 

Parliamentary  jabber  and  jaw, 

Pious  cant  and  moral  saw. 

Hocus-pocus,  and  Nong-tong-paw, 

And  empty  sounds  not  worth  a  straw  ; 

Why,  it  costs  a  guinea,  as  I'm  a  sinner, 

To  hear  the  sounds  at  a  public  dinner; 

One-pound-one  thrown  into  the  puddle, 

To  listen  to  fiddle,  faddle  and  fuddle! 

Not  to  forget  the  sounds  we  buy 

From  those  who  sell  their  sounds  so  high, 

That,  unlos  the  managers  pitch  it  strong, 

To  get  a  signora  to  warble  a  song 

You  must  fork  out  the  blunt  with  a  haymaker's  prong, 

"  It's  not  the  thing  for  me  —  I  know  it  — 
To  crack  my  own  trumpet  up  and  blow  it; 
But  it  is  the  best,  and  time  will  show  it. 


300  A    TALE    0F    A    TRUMPET. 

There  was  Mrs.  F. 

So  very  deaf, 
That  she  might  have  worn  a  percussion-cap, 
And  been  knocked  on  the  head  without  hearing  it  snap. 
Well,  I  sold  her  a  horn,  and  the  very  next  day 
She  heard  from  her  husband  at  Botany  Baj ! 
Come — eighteen  shillings  —  that's  very  low, 
Yon'll  save  the  money  as  shillings  go,  — 
And  I  never  knew  so  bad  a  lot,  — 
By  hearing  whether  they  ring  or  not ! 
Eighteen  shillings!  it's  worth  the  price, 
Supposing  you're  delicate-minded  and  nice, 
To  have  the  medical  man  of  your  choice, 
Instead  of  the  one  with  the  strongest  voice  — 
Who  comes  and  asks  you  how's  your  liver, 
And  where  you  ache,  and  whether  you  shiver. 
And  as  to  your  nerves  so  apt' to  quiver, 
As  if  he  was  hailing  a  boat  on  the  river ! 
And  then,  with  a  shout,  like  Pat  in  a  riot, 
Tells  you  to  keep  yourself  perfectly  quiet ! 

"  Or  a  tradesman  comes  —  as  tradesmen  will-- 
Short  and  crusty  about  his  bill, 

Of  patience,  indeed,  a  perfect  scorner, 
And  because  you're  deaf  and  unable  to  pay, 
Shouts  whatever  he  has  to  say, 
In  a  vulgar  voice,  that  goes  over  the  way, 

Down  the  street  and  round  the  corner! 
Come  —  speak  your  mind  —  it's  '  No  or  Yes.'  " 
("I've  halt'  a  mind,"  said  Dame  Eleanor  S.) 

"  Try  it  again  —  no  harm  in  trying  ; 

Of  course  you  hear  me,  as  easy  as  lying ; 

No  pain  at  all,  like  a  surgical  trick, 

To  make  you  squall,  and  struggle,  and  kick, 


A    TALE    OF    A    TRUMPET.  301 

Like  Juno,  or  Rose, 
Whose  ear  undergoes 

Such  horrid  tugs  at  membrane  and  gristle, 
For  being  as  deaf  as  yourself  to  a  whistle! 

"You  may  go  to  surgical  chaps,  if  you  choose, 
Who  will  blow  up  your  tubes  like  copper  flues, 
Or  cut  your  tonsils  right  away, 
As  you'd  shell  out  your  almonds  for  Christmas-day ; 
And  after  all  a  matter  of  doubt, 
Whether  you  ever  Mould  hear  the  shout 
Of  the  lit  lie  blackguards  that  bawl  about, 
'There  you  go  with  your  tonsils  out!' 
Why,   1   knew  a  deaf  Welshman   who  came    from  Gla- 
morgan 

On  purpose  to  try  a  surgical  spell, 

And  paid  a  guinea,  and  might  as  well 
Have  called  a  monkey  into  his  organ!    . 
For  the  Aurist  only  took  a  mug, 
And  poured  in  his  ear  some  acoustical  drug, 
That,  instead  of  curing,  deafened  him  rather, 
As  Hamlet's  uncle  served  Hamlet's  father! 
That's  the  way  with  your  surgical  gentry! 
And  happy  your  luck 
If  you  don't  gel  stuck 
Through  your  liver  and  lights  at  a  royal  entry, 
Because  you  never  answered  the  sentry! 

'•Tr\  it  again,  dear  madam,  try  it  ! 
Many  would  sell  their  beds  to  buy  it. 
I  warrant  you  often  wake  up  in  the  night, 
Ready  to  shake  to  a  jelly  with  flight, 
And  up  you  must  gel  to  strike  a  light, 
And  down  you  go  in  you  know  not  what, 

Whether  tha  weather  is  chilly  or  not, — 
26 


302  A    TALE    OF    A    TRUMPET. 

That's  the  way  a  cold  is  got,  — 
To  see  if  you  heard  a  noise  or  not! 

"  Why,  bless  you,  a  woman  with  organs  like  yours 
Is  hardly  sate  to  step  out  of  doors  ! 
Just  fancy  a  horse  that  comes  full  pelt, 
But  as  quiet  as  if  he  was  '  shod  with  felt,' 
Till  he  rushes  against  you  with  all  his  force, 
And  then  I  needn't  describe,  of  course, 
While  he  kicks  you  about  without  remorse, 
How  awkward  it  is  to  he  groomed  by  a  horse ! 
Or  a  bullock  comes,  as  mad  as  King  Lear, 
And  you  never  dream  that  the  brute  is  near, 
Till  he  pokes  his  horn  light  into  your  ear, 
Whether  you  like  the  thing  or  lump  it, — 
And  all  for  want  of  buying  a  trumpet ! 

"  I'm  not  a  female  to  fret  and  vex, 
But  if  I  belonged  to  the  sensitive  sex, 
Exposed  to  all  sorts  of  indelicate  sounds, 
I  wouldn't  be  deaf  for  a  thousand  pounds. 

Lord!  only  think  of  chucking  a  copper 
To  Jack  or  Bob  with  a  timber  limb, 
Who  looks  as  if  lie  was  singing  a  hymn, 

Instead  of  a  song  that's  very  improper! 
Or  just  suppose  in  a  public  place 
You  see  a  great  fellow  a-pulling  a  face, 
Witli  his  staring  eyes  and  his  mouth  like  an  O,  — 
And  how.is  a  poor  deaf  lady  to  know  — 
The  lower  orders  are  up  to  such  games  — 
If  he's  calling  'Green  Peas,'  or  calling  her  names?" 
("  They're  tenpence  a  peck  !  "  said  the  deafest  of  dames.. 

"  Tis  strange  what  very  strong  advising, 
By  word  of  mouth  or  advertising, 


A    TALK    OF    A    TRUMPET.  303 

By  chalking  on  walls,  or  placarding  on  vans, 

With  fifty  other  different  plans, 

The  very  high  pressure,  in  fact,  of  pressing, 

It  needs  to  persuade  one  to  purchase  a  blessing ! 

"Whether  the  Soothing  American  Syrup, 

A  Safety  Hat  or  a  Safety  Stirrup,  — 

Infallible  Pills  for  the  human  frame, 

Or  Rowland's  O-don't-o  (an  ominous  name  !) 

A  Doudney's  suit  which  the  shape  so  hits 

That  it  heats  all  others  into  Jits ; 

A  Mechi's  razor  for  beards  unshorn, 

Or  a  Ghbst-of-a-Whisper-Catching  Horn! 

"  Try  it  again,  ma'am,  only  try  !  " 

"Was  still  the  voluble  pedler's  cry  ; 

"  It's  a  great  privation,  there's  no  dispute, 

To  live  like  the  dumb  unsociable  brute, 

And  to  hear  no  more  of  the  pru  and  con, 

And  how  society's  going  on, 

Than  Mumbo  Jumbo  or  Prester  John, 

And  all  for  want  of  this  sine  qua  non  ; 

Whereas,  with  a  horn  that  never  offends, 
You  may  join  the  genteelesf  party  that  is. 
And  enjoy  all  the  scandal,  and  gossip,  and  quiz, 

And  he  certain  to  hear  of  your  absent  friends  ;  — 
Not  that  elegant  ladies,  in  fact, 
In  genteel  societj  ever  detract, 
Or  lend  a  brush  when  a  friend  is  blacked, 
At  least  as  ;I  mere  malicious  act, — 
Bui  only  talk  scandal  I'm-  fear  some  fool 
Should  think  they  «  ti   bred  at  charity  school. 

Or,  maybe,  you  like  a  little  flirtation, 
Which  even  the  must  Don  Juanish  rake 
Would  surely  object  to  undertake 

At  the  same  high  pitch  as  an  altercation. 


304  A    TALE    OF   A    TRUMPET. 

It's  not  for  mo,  of  course,  to  judge 

How  much  a  deaf  lady  ought  to  begrudge; 

But  half-a-guinea  seems  no  great  matter  — 

Letting  alone  more  rational  patter  — 

Only  to  hear  a  parrot  chatter  ; 

Not  to  mention  that  feathered  wit, 

The  starling,  who  speaks  when  his  tongue  is  slit ; 

The  pies  and  jays  that  utter  words, 

And  other  Dicky  Gossips  of  birds,   . 

That  talk  with  as  much  good  sense  and  decorum 

As  many  Beaks  who  belong  to  the  quorum. 

"  Try  it  —  buy  it  —  say  ten-and-six, 

The  lowest  price  a  miser  could  fix  : 

I  don't  pretend  with  horns  of  mine, 

Like  some  in  the  advertising  line, 

To  '  magnify  sounds'  on  such  marvellous  scales, 

That  the  sounds  of  a  cod  seem  as  big  as  a  whale's ; 

But  popular  rumors,  right  or  wrong,  — 

Charity  sermons,  short  or  long, — 

Lecture,  speech,  concerto,  or  song, 

All  noises  and  voices,  feeble  or  strong, 

From  the  hum  of  a  gnat  to  the  clash  of  a  gong, 

This  tube  will  deliver,  distinct  and  clear; 

Or  supposing  by  chance 

You  wish  to  dance, 
Why,  it's  putting  a  Horn-pipe  into  your  ear ! 

Try  it  —buy  it  ! 

Buy  it  —  try  it ! 
The  last  new  patent,  and  nothing  comes  nigh  it, 

For  guiding  sounds  to  proper  tunnel : 
Only  try  till  the  end  of  June, 
And  if  you  and  the  trumpet  are  out  of  tunc, 
I'll  turn  it  gratis  into  a  funnel !  " 


A    TALE    OF    A    TRUMPET.  305 

In  short,  the  pedler  so  beset  her,  — 

Lord  Bacon  couldn't  have  gammoned  her  better,  — 

With  flatteries  plump  and  indirect, 

And  plied  his  tongue  with  such  effect, — 

A  tongue  that  could  almost  have  buttered  a  crumpet,— 

The  deaf  old  woman  bought  the  trumpet. 

The  pedler  was  gone.     With  the  horn's  assistance, 
She  heard  his  steps  die  away  in  the  distance ; 
And  then  she  heard  the  tick  of  the  clock, 
The  purring  of  puss,  and  the  snoring  of  Shock  ! 
And  she  purposelj  dropt  a  pin  that  was  little, 
And  heard  it  fall  as  plain  as  a  skittle! 

'Twas  a  wonderful  horn,  to  be  but  just  ! 

Nor  meant  to  gather  dust,  must,  and  rust  : 

So  in  half  a  jiffy,  or  less  than  that, 

In  her  scarlet  cloak  and  her  steeple  hat. 

Like  old  Dame  Trot,  but  without  her  Cat, 

The  gossip  was  hunting  all  Tringham  thorough, 

As  if  she  meant  to  canvass  the  borough, 

Trumpet  in  hand,  or  up  to  the  cavity  :  — 
And,  sure,  had  the  horn  been  one  of  those 
The  wild  rhinoceros  wears  on  his  nose 

It  couldn't  have  ripped  up  more  depravity! 

Depravity  !  mercy  shield  her  ears ! 
Twas  plain  enough  that  Iter  village  peers 

In  the  ways  of  vice  were  no  raw  beginners  ; 

For  whenever  she  raised  the  tube  to  her  drum, 

■i  sounds  were  transmitted  as  onlj  come 

From  the  very  brass  hand  of  human  sinners! 

Ribald  jest  and  blasphemous  curse, 
(Bunyan  never  vented  worse,) 
26* 


306  A    TALE    OF    A    TRUMPET. 

"With  all  those  weeds,  not  flowers,  of  speech 

"Which  the  seven  Dialecticians  teach  ; 

Filthy  conjunctions,  and  dissolute  nouns, 

And  particles  picked  from  the  kennels  of  towns, 

With  irregular  verbs  for  irregular  jobs, 

Chiefly  active  in  rows  and  mobs, 

Picking  possessive  pronouns'  fobs, 

And  interjections  as  had  as  a  blight, 

Or  an  Eastern  blast,  to  the  blood  and  the  sight; 

Fanciful  phrases  for  crime  and  sin, 

And  smacking  of  vulgar  lips  where  gin, 

Garlic,  tobacco,  and  offals  go  in  — 

A  jargon  so  truly  adapted,  in  fact, 

To  each  thievish,  obscene,  and  ferocious  act, 

So  fit  for  the  brute  with  the  human  shape, 

Savage  baboon,  or  libidinous  ape, 

From  their  ugly  mouths  it  will  certainly  come 

Should  they  ever  get  weary  of  shamming  dumbi 

Alas!  for  the  voice  of  Virtue  and  Truth, 
And  the  sweet  little  innocent  prattle  of  youth! 
The  smallest  urchin  whose  tongue  could  tang 
Shocked  the  dame  with  a  volley  of  slang, 
Fit  for  Fagin's  juvenile  gang  ; 
While  the  charity  chap, 
With  his  muffin  cap, 

His  crimson  coat  and  his  badge  so  garish, 
Playing  at  dumps,  or  pitch  in  the  hole, 
Cursed  his  eyes,  limits,  body,  and  soul, 

As  if  they  didn't  belong  to  the  parish! 
Twaa  awful  to  hear,  as  she  went  along, 
The  wicked  words  of  the  popular  song; 

Or  supposing  she  listened  —  as  gossips  will— « 
At  a  door  ajar,  or  a  window  agape, 
To  catch  the  sounds  they  allowed  to  escape, 


A    TAEE    OF    A    TRUMPET.  gQJ 

Those  sounds  belonged  to  Depravity  still ! 
The  dark  allusion,  or  bolder  brag 
Of  the  dexterous  "  dodge,"  and  the  lots  of"  swag," 
The  plundered  house  —  or  the  stolen  nag  — 
The  blazing  rick,  or  the  darker  crime 
That  quenched  the  spark  before  its  time  — 
The  wanton  speech  of  the  wife  immoral  — 
The  noise  of  drunken  or  deadly  quarrel,  — 
With  savage  menaces,  which  threatened  the  life, 
Till  the  heart  seemed  merely  a  strop  "  for  the  knife  ;  " 
The  human  liver,  no  better  than  that 
"Which  is  sliced  and  thrown  to  an  old  woman's  cat  ; 

And  the  head,  so  useful  for  sh  iking  and  nodding, 
To  be  punched  into  holes,  like  a  "  shocking  bad  hat" 

That  is  only  fit  to  be  punched  into  wadding! 

In  short,  wherever  she  turned  the  horn, 
To  the  highly  bred  or  the  lowly  born, 
The  working  nun  who  looked  over  the  hedge, 
Or  the  mother  nursing  her  infa.n1  pledge, 
The  sober  Quaker,  averse  to  quarrels. 
Or  the  governess  pacing  the  village  through, 
With  her  twelve  young  ladies,  two  and  two, 
Looking,  as  such  young  ladies  do. 

Trussed  by  Decorum  and  stuffed  with  morals  — 
Whether  she  listened  to  Hob  or  Bob, 

Xo!)  or  Snob, 

The  Squire  on  his  col), 
Or  Trudge  and  his  assal  a  tinkering  job, 

To  the  saint  who  expounded  at  ••  Little  /ion" 

Or  the  "sinner  who  kept  the  Golden  Lion"— 
The  man  teetotally  weaned  from  liquor  — 
The  beadle,  the  clerk,  or  the  reverend  vicar  — 
Nay,  the  very  pie  in  its  cage  of  wicker  — 
She  gathered  such  meanings,  double  or  single, 


308  A    TALE   OF   A    TRUMPET. 

That,  like  the  bell 
With  muffins  to  sell, 
Her  ear  was  kept  in  a  constant  tingle  ! 

But  this  was  nought  to  the  tales  of  shame, 

The  constant  runnings  of  evil  fame, 

Foul,  and  dirty,  and  black  as  ink, 

That  her  ancient  cronies,  with  nod  and  Mink, 

Poured  in  her  horn  like  slops  in  a  sink  : 

While  sitting  in  conclave,  as  gossips  do, 
With  their  Hyson  or  Howqua,  black  or  green, 
And  not  a  little  of  feline  spleen 

Lapped  up  in  "  Catty  packages,"  too, 

To  give  a  zest  to  the  sipping  and  supping; 
For  still,  by  some  invisible  tether, 
Scandal  and  tea  are  linked  together, 

As  surely  as  scarification  and  cupping ; 
Yet  never  since  Scandal  drank  Bohea  — 
Or  sloe,  or  whatever  it  happened  to  be, 
For  some  grocerly  thieves 
Turn  over  new  leaves 
Without  much  amending  their  lives  or  their  tea  — 
No,  never  since  cup  was  filled  or  stirred, 
Were  such  vile  and  horrible  anecdotes  beard, 
As  blackened  their  neighbors  of  either  gender, 
Especially  that  which  is  called  the  Tender, 
But  instead  of  the  softness  we  fancy  therewith, 
As  hardened  in  vice  as  the  vice  of  a  smith. 

Women  !  the  wretches  !  had  soiled  and  marred 

Whatever  to  womanly  nature  belongs; 
For  the  marriage  tie  they  had  no  regard, 
Nay,  sped  their  mates  to  the  sexton's  yard, 

(Like  .Madame  Laffarge,  who  with  poisonous  pinches 

Kepi  cutting  off  her  L  by  inches) 
And  as  lor  drinking,  they  drank  so  hard 


A   TALE    OF    A    TRUMPET.  300 

That  they  drank  their  flat-irons,  pokers,  and  tongs .' 
The  men  —  they  fought  and  gambled  at  fairs ; 
And  poached  —  and  didn't  respect  gray  hairs  — 
Stole  linen,  money,  plate,  poultry,  and  corses  ; 
And  broke  in  houses  as  well  as  horses  ; 
Unfolded  folds  to  kill  their  own  mutton, 
And  would  their  own  mothers  and  wives  for  a  button  — 
But  not  to  repeat  the  deeds  they  did, 
Backsliding  in  spite  of  all  moral  skid, 
If  all  were  true  that  fell  from  the  tongue, 
There  was  not  a  villager,  old  or  young, 
But  deserved  to  be  whipped,  imprisoned,  or  hung, 
Or  sent  on  those  travels  which  nobody  hurries 
To  publish  at  Colburn's,  or  Longmans',  or  Murray's. 

Meanwhile  the  trumpet,  eon  "wore, 

Transmitted  each  vile  diabolical  story  : 

Ami  give  the  least  whisper  of  slips  and  falls, 

As  that  gallery  does  in  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's, 

Which,  as  all  the  world  knows,  by  practice  or  print, 

Is  famous  !br  making  the  most  of  a  hint. 

Not  a  murmur  of  shame, 

Or  buzz  of  blame, 
Not  a  (lying  report  that  Hew  at  a  name. 
No)  a  plausible  gloss,  or  significant  note, 

Nol   a  word  ii.      u         md  dous  circles  all. at 

Of  a  beam  in  the  eye  or  diminutive  m 

Bui  vortex-like  that  tube  of  tin 
Sucked  th  :ioiis  particle  in  ; 

And,  truth  to  tell,  for  as  willing  an  orj 
As  ever  listened  to  serpent's  hiss, 
X"!'  took  the  viperous  sound  amiss. 

On  the  snaky  head  of  an  ancient  (  forgon  ! 

The  dame,  it  is  true,  would  mutter  "Shocking!" 

\im1  give  het  head  a  sorrowful  rocking. 


310  A    TAI.E    OF    A    THUMPET. 

And  make  a  clucking  with  palate  and  tongue, 

Like  the  call  of  Partlet  to  gather  her  young, 

A  sound,  when  human,  that  always  proclaims 
At  least  a  thousand  pities  and  shames, 

But  still  the  darker  the  tale  of  sin, 
Like  certain  folks  when  calamities  hurst 
AVho  find  a  comfort  in  "  hearing  the  worst," 

The  further  she  poked  the  trumpet  in. 
Nay,  worse,  whatever  she  heard,  she  spread 

East,  and  West,  and  North,  and  South, 
Like  the  hall  which,  according  to  Captain  Z., 

Went  in  at  his  ear,  and  came  out  at  his  mouth. 

What  wonder,  between  the  horn  and  the  dame, 
Such  mischief  was  made  wherever  they  came, 
That,  the  parish  of  Tringham  was  all  in  a  flame  ! 

For  although  it  requires  such  loud  discharges, 
Such  peals  of  thunder  as  rumbled  at  Lear, 
To  turn  the  smallest  of  table-beer, 
A  little  whisper  breathed  into  the  ear 

Will  sour  a  temper  "as  sour  as  varges." 
In  fact,  such  very  ill  blood  there  grew, 

From  this  private  circulation  of  stories, 
That  the  nearest  neighbors,  the  village  through, 
Looked  at  each  other  as  yellow  and  blue 
As  any  electioneering  crew 

Wearing  the  colors  of  Whigs  and  Tories. 

Ah  !  well  the  poet  said,  in  sooth. 

That  "whispering  tongues  can  poison  Truth," 

Yea.  like  a  dose  of  oxalic  acid, 
Wrench  and  convulse  poor  Peace,  the  placid, 
And  rack  dear  Love  with  internal  fuel. 
Like  arsenic  pastry,  or,  what  is  as  cruel, 
Sugar  of  lead,  that  sweetens  gruel; 


A    TALE    OF    A    TRUMPET.  311 

At  least  such  torments  began  to  wring  'em 

From  the  very  morn 

When  that  mischievous  horn 
Caught  the  whisper  of  tongues  in  Tringham. 

The  Social  Clubs  dissolved  in  huffs, 

And  the  Sons  of  Harmony  came  to  cuffs, 

While  feuds  arose,  and  family  quarrels, 

That  discomposed  the  mechanics  of  morals, 

For  screws  were  loose  between  brother  and  brother, 

While  sisters  fastened  their  nails  on  each  other  : 

Such  wrangles,  and  jangles,  and  miff,  and  tiff, 

And  spar,  and  jar  —  and  breezes  as  stiff 

As  ever  upset  a  friendship  or  skill'! 

The  plighted  lovers,  who  used  to  walk, 

Refused  to  meet,  and  declined  to  talk; 

And  wished  for  two  moons  to  reflect  the  sun, 

That  they  mightn't  look  together  on  one ; 

While  wedded  affection  ran  so  low, 

That  the  oldest  John  Anderson  snubbed  his  Jo  — 

And  instead  of  the  toddle  adown  the  hill, 

Hand  in  hand, 

As  the  song  has  planned, 
Scratched  her,  penniless,  out  of  his  will ! 

In  short,  to  describe  what  came  to  pass 

In  a  true,  though  somewhat  theatrical  way, 

Instead  of  "  Love  in  a  Village  "  —  alas  ! 

The  piece  tiny  performed  was  "The  Devil  to  Pay!" 

However,  as  secrets  are  brought  to  light, 

And  mischief  comes  home  like  chickens  at  night ; 

And  rivers  are  tracked  throughout  their  course, 

And  forgeries  traced  to  their  proper  source  ;  — 
And  the  sow  that  ought 
By  the  car  is  caught,  — 


312  A    TALE    OF    A    TRUMPET. 

And  the  sin  to  the  sinful  door  is  brought ; 
And  the  cat  at  last  escapes  from  the  bag  — 
And  the  saddle  is  placed  on  the  proper  nag; 
And  the  fog  blows  off,  and  the  key  is  found  — 
And  the  faulty  scent  is  picked  out  by  the  hound  — 
And  the  fact  turns  up  like  a  worm  from  the  ground 
And  the  matter  gets  wind  to  waft  it  about ; 
And  a  hint  goes  abroad  and  the  murder  is  out  — 
And  the  riddle  is  guessed  —  and  the  puzzle  is  known  - 
So  the  truth  was  sniffed,  and  the  trumpet  was  blown ! 


Tis  a  day  in  November  —  a  day  of  fog  — 
But  the  Tringham  people  are  all  agog  ; 
Fathers,  mothers,  and  mothers'  sons, — 
With  sticks,  and  staves,  and  swords,  and  guns, — 
As  if  in  pursuit  of  a  rabid  dog; 
But  their  voices  —  raised  to  the  highest  pitch  — 
Declare  that  the  game  is  "  a  Witch!— a  Witch!" 
Over  the  green  and  along  by  the  George  — 
Past  the  stocks,  and  the  church,  and  the  forge, 
And  round  the  pound,  and  skirting  the  pond, 
Till  they  come  to  the  whitewashed  cottage  beyond, 
And  there  at  the  door  tiny  muster  and  cluster, 
And  thump,  and  kick,  and  bellow,  and  bluster  — 
Enough  to  put  old  Nick  in  a  fluster! 
A  noise,  indeed,  so  loud  and  Ion-;, 
And  mixed  with  expressions  so  very  strong, 
That  supposing,  according  to  popular  fame, 
"Wise  Woman  "  and  Witch  to  he  the  same, 
No  hag  with  a  broom  would  unwisely  stop, 
But  up  and  away  through  the  chimney-top ; 
Whereas,  the  moment  they  burst  the  door, 
Planted  last  on  her  sanded  floor, 


A    TALE    OF    A    TRUMPET.  313 

With  her  trumpet  up  to  her  organ  of  hearing, 
Lo  and  behold  !  —  Dame  Eleanor  Spearing  ! 

O !  then  arises  the  fearful  shout  — 

Bawled  and  screamed,  and  bandied  about  — 

"  Seize  her  !  —  drag  the  old  Jezebel  out!  " 

While  the  beadle  —  the  foremost  of  all  the  band  — ■ 

Snatches  the  horn  from  her  trembling  hand, 

And  after  a  pause  of  doubt  and  fear, 

Puts  it  up  to  his  sharpest  ear. 

"  Now  silence  —  silence  —  one  and  all !  " 
For  the  clerk  is  quoting  from  Holy  Paul! 

Put  before  he  rehearses 

A  couple  of  verses. 
The  beadle  lets  the  trumpet  fall; 
For  instead  of  the  words  so  pious  and  humble, 
He  hears  a  supernatural  grumble. 

Enough,  enough  !  and  more  than  enough; — ■ 
Twenty  impatient  hands  and  rough, 
By  arm,  and  leg,  and  neck,  and  scruff, 
Apron,  'kerchief,  gown  of  stuff  — 
Cap,  and  pinner,  sleeve,  and  cuff — 
Are  clutching  the  Witch  wherever  they  can, 
With  the  spite  of  woman  and  fury  of  man; 
And  then  —  but  first  they  kill  her  cat, 
And  murder  her  dog  on  the  verj  mat  — 
And  crush  the  infernal  trumpet  Hit  :  — 
And  then  tiny  hurry  her  through  the  door 
She  never,  never,  will  enter  more  ! 

Awa\  !    away  !   down  the  dusty  lane 
The)   pull  her  and  haul  her,  with  might  and  main: 
And  happy  the  hawbuck,  Tom  or  Harry, 
Dandy,  or  Sandy,  Jerry,  or  Larry, 
27  " 


314  A    TALE    OF    A    TRUMPET. 

Who  happens  to  get  a  "  leg  to  carry  !  " 

And  happy  the  foot  that  can  give  her  a  kick, 

And  happy  the  hand  that  can  find  a  brick  — 

And  happy  the  fingers  that  hold  a  stick  — 

Knife  to  cut,  or  pin  to  prick  — 

And  happy  the  boy  who  can  lend  her  a  lick ;  — 

Nay,  happy  the  urchin  —  charity-bred  — 

Who  can  shy  very  nigh  to  her  wicked  old  head ! 

Alas !  to  think  how  people's  creeds 
Are  contradicted  by  people's  deeds  ! 

But  though  the  wishes  that  Witches  utter 
Can  play  the  most  diabolical  rigs  — 
Send  styes  in  the  eye  —  and  measle  the  pigs  — 

Grease  horses'  heels  —  and  spoil  the  butter; 
Smut  and  mildew  the  corn  on  the  stalk  — 
And  turn  new  milk  to  water  and  chalk,  — 
Blight  apples  —  and  give  the  chickens  the  pip  — 
And  cramp  the  stomach  —  and  cripple  the  hip  — 
And  waste  the  body — and  addle  the  es'srs  — 

*  DO 

And  give  a  baby  bandy  legs  ; 

Though  in  common  belief  a  Witch's  curse 

Involves  all  these  horrible  things  and  worse  — 

As  ignorant  bumpkins  all  profess  — 

No  bumpkin  makes  a  poke  the  less 

At  the  back  or  the  ribs  of  old  Eleanor  S. ! 

As  if  she  were  only  a  sack  of  barley ; 
Or  gives  her  credit  for  greater  might 
Than  the  powers  of  darkness  confer  at  night 

On  that  other  old  woman,  the  parish  Charley; 
Ay,  now*s  the  time  for  a.  witch  to  call 
On  her  imps  and  suCKungs  one  and  all  — 
Newes,  Pyewacket,  or  Peck  in  the  Crown, 
(As  .Matthew  Hopkins  has  handed  them  down) 
Dick,  and  Willct,  and  Sugar-and-Sack, 


A    TALE    OP    A    TRUMPET.  315 

Greedy  Grizel,  Jarmara  the  Black, 

Vinegar  Tom  and  the  rest  of  the  pack  — 

Ay,  now's  the  nick  for  her  friend  Old  Harry 

To  come  "  with  his  tail "  like  the  bold  GlengaiTy, 

And  drive  her  foes  from  their  savage  job 

As  a  mad  Black  Bullock  would  scatter  a  mob  :  — 

But  no  such  matter  is  down  in  the  bond ; 
And  spite  of  her  cries  that  never  cease, 
But  scare  the  ducks  and  astonish  the  geese, 

The  dame  is  dragged  to  the  laud  pond ! 

And  now  they  come  to  the  water's  brim  — 

And  in  they  bundle  her — sink  or  swim  ; 

Though  it's  twenty  to  one  that  the  wretch  must  drown, 

With  twenty  sticks  to  hold  her  down  ; 

Including  the  help  to  the  self-same  end, 

Which  a  travelling  pedler  stops  to  lend. 

A  pedler  !  —  Yes  !  —  The  same  !  —  the  same  ! 

Who  sold  the  horn  to  the  drowning  dame! 

And  now  is  foremost  amid  the  stir, 

With  a  token  only  revealed  to  her; 

A  token  that  makes  her  shudder  and  shriek, 

And  point  with  her  finger,  and  strive  to  speak  — 

But  before  she  can  utter  the  name  of  the  Devil, 

Her  head  is  under  the  water  level! 

jlloiul. 

There  are  folks  about  town — to  name  no  names — > 
Who  much  resemble  thai  deafesl  of  dames; 

And  over  their  tea,  and  muffins,  and  crumpets, 
Circulate  many  a  scandalous  word, 
And  whisper  tales  they  could  only  have  heard 

Through  some  such  Diabolical  Trumpets! 


-  ■ 


31G  N0  •  — THE    IRISH    SCHOOLMASTER. 


NO! 

No  sun  —  no  moon  ! 

No  morn  —  no  noon  — 
No  dawn  —  no  dusk  —  no  proper  time  of  day  — 

No  sky  —  no  earthly  view  — 

No  distance  looking  blue  — 
No  road  —  no  street  —  no  "  t'other  side  the  way  "  • 

No  end  to  any  Row  — 

No  indications  where  the  Crescents  go  — 

No  top  to  any  steeple  — 
No  recognitions  of  familiar  people  — 

No  courtesies  for  showing  'em  — 

No  knowing  'em  ! 
No  travelling  at  all  —  no  locomotion, 
No  inkling  of  the  way — no  notion  — 

"  No  go  " —  by  land  or  ocean  — 

No  mail  —  no  post  — 

No  news  from  any  foreign  coast  — 
No  park  —  no  ring — no  afternoon  gentility  — 

No  company  —  no  nobility  — 
No  warmth,  no  cheerfulness,  no  healthful  ease, 

No  comfortable  feel  in  any  member  — 
No  shade,  no  shine,  no  butterflies,  no  bees, 
No  fruits,  no  flowers,  no  leaves,  no  birds, 

November ! 


THE   IRISH    SCHOOLMASTER. 

ALACK  !  'tis  melancholy  theme  to  think 
How  Learning  doth  in  rugged  states  abide, 
And,  like  her  bashful  owl,  obscurely  blink, 


THE    IRISH    SCHOOLMASTER.  317 

In  pensive  glooms  and  comers,  scarcely  spied ; 
Not,  as  in  Founders'  Halls  and  domes  of  pride, 
Served  with  grave  homage,  like  a  tragic  queen, 
But  with  one  lonely  priest  compelled  to  hide, 
In  midst  of  foggy  moors  and  mosses  green, 
In  that  clay  cabin  hight  the  College  of  Kilrecn ! 

This  college  looketh  South  and  West  alsoe, 
Because  it  hath  a  cast  in  windows  twain  ; 
Crazy  and  cracked  they  he,  and  wind  doth  blow 
Thorough  transparent  holes  in  every  pane, 
Which  Dan,  with  many  paines,  makes  whole  again 
With  nether  garments,  which  his  thrift  doth  teach 
To  stand  for  glass,  like  pronouns,  and  when  rain 
Stormeth,  he  puts,  '•once  more  unto  the  breach," 
Outside  and  in,  though  broke,  yet  so  he  mendeth  each. 

And  in  the  midst  a  little  door  there  is, 
Whereon  a  board  that  doth  congratulate 
With  painted  letters,  red  a-  blood  I  wis, 
Thus  written,  "(tbfUnni  taften  fn  to  Bate ;  " 
And  oft,  indeed,  the  inward  of  that  gate, 
Most  ventriloque,  doth  utter  tender  squeak, 
And  moans  of  infants  that  bemoan  their  fate 
In  midst  of  sounds  of  Latin,  French,  and  Greek, 
Which,  all  i'the  Irish  tongue,  he  teacheth  them  to  speak. 

For  some  are  meant  to  right  illegal  wrongs, 

And  some  for  Doctors  of  Divinitie, 

Whom  lie  doth  teach  to  murder  the  dead  tongues, 

And  soe  win  academical  degi 

Bu1  some  are  bred  for  service  of  the  sea, 

Howbeit,  their  store  of  learning  is  but  small, 

For  inickle  waste  he  counteth  it  would  he 


318  THE   Ikisil    SCHOOLMASTER. 

To  stock  a  head  with  bookish  wares  at  all, 
Only  to  be  knocked  off  by  ruthless  cannon-ball. 

Six  babes  he  sways,  —  some  little  and  some  big, 
Divided  into  classes  six  ;  —  alsoe, 
He  keeps  a  parlor  boarder  of  a  pig, 
That  in  the  college  fareth  to  and  fro, 
And  picketh  up  the  urchins'  crumbs  below, — 
And  eke  the  learned  rudiments  they  scan, 
And  thus  his  A,  B,  C,  doth  wisely  know,  — 
Hereafter  to  be  shown  in  caravan, 
And  raise  the  wonderment  of  many  a  learned  man. 

Alsoe,  he  schools  some  lame  familiar  fowls, 
Whereof,  above  his  head,  some  two  or  three 
Sit  darkly  squatting,  like  Minerva's  owls, 
But  on  the  branches  of  no  living  tree, 
And  overlook  the  learned  family  ; 
While,  sometimes,  Partlet,  from  her  gloomy  perch, 
Drops  feather  on  the  nose  of  ]  )ominie, 
Meanwhile,  with  serious  eye,  he  makes  research 
In  leaves  of  that  sour  tree  of  knowledge  —  now  a  birch 

No  chair  he  hath,  the  awful  pedagogue, 
Such  as  would  magisterial  hams  imbed, 
But  sitteth  lowly  on  a  beechen  log, 
Secure  in  high  authority  and  dread  : 
Large,  as  a  dome  for  learning,  seems  his  head, 
And  like  Apollo's,  all  beset  with  rays, 
Because  his  locks  are  so  unkempt  and  red, 
And  stand  abroad  in  many  several  ways  :  — 
No  laurel  crown  he  wears,  howbeit  his  cap  is  baize, 

And,  underneath,  a  pair  of  shaggy  brows 
O'erhang  as  many  eyes  of  gizzard  hue, 
That  inward  giblet  of  a  fowl,  which  shows 


THE    IRISH    SCHOOLMASTER.  311) 

A  mongrel  tint,  that  is  ne  brow  ne  blue ; 
His  nose,  —  it  is  a  coral  to  the  view  ; 
"Well  nourished  with  Pierian  potheen, — 
For  much  he  loves  his  native  mountain  dew;  — - 
But  to  depict  the  dye  would  lack,  I  ween, 
A  bottle-red,  in  terms,  as  well  as  bottle-green. 

As  for  his  coat,  'tis  such  a  jerkin  short 
As  Spenser  had,  ere  he  composed  his  Tales ; 
But  underneath  he  hath  no  vest,  nor  aught, 
So  that  the  wind  his  airy  breast  assails ; 
Below,  he  wears  the  nether  garb  of  males, 
Of  crimson  plush,  but  non-plushed  at  the  knee  :  — 
Thence  further  down  the  native  red  prevails, 
Of  his  own  naked  fleecy  hosierie  :  — 
Two  sandals,  without  soles,  complete  his  cap-a-pie. 

Nathlcss,  for  dignity,  he  now  doth  lap 
His  function  in  a  magisterial  gown, 
That  shows  more  countries  in  it  than  a  map, — 
Blue  tinct,  and  red,  and  green,  and  russet  brown, 
Besides  some  blots,  standing  for  country-town  ; 
And  eke  some  rents,  for  streams  and  rivers  wide  ; 
But,  sometimes,  bashful  when  he  looks  adown, 
He  turns  the  garment  of  the  other  side, 
Hopeful  that  so  the  holes  may  never  be  espied! 

And  soe  he  siis,  amidst  the  little  pack, 

That  look  for  shady  or  for  sunny  noon, 

Within  his  visage,  like  an  almanack, — 

His  quiet  smile  foretelling  gracious  boon: 

Bui  when  his  mouth  droops  down,  like  rainy  moon. 

With  horrid  chill  each  little  heart  unwarms, 

Knowing  that  infant  showers  will  follow  soon, 


•}20  T1IF,    IRISH    SCHOOLMASTER. 

And  with  forebodings  of  near  wrath  and  storms 
They  sit,  like  timid  hares,  all  trembling  on  their  forms. 

Ah  !  luckless  wight,  who  cannot  then  repeat 
"Corduroy  Colloquy,"  —  or  "Ki,  Ksb,  Kod,"  — 
Full  soon  his  tears  shall  make  his  turfy  seat 
More  sodden,  though  already  made  of  sod, 
For  Dan  shall  whip  him  with  the  word  of  God,— i 
Severe  by  rule,  and  not  by  nature  mild, 
Fie  never  spoils  the  child  and  spares  the  rod, 
But  spoils  the  rod  and  never  spares  the  child, 
And  soe  with  holy  ride  deems  he  is  reconciled. 

But  surely  the  just  sky  will  never  wink 
At  men  who  take  delight  in  childish  throe, 
And  stripe  the  nether-urchin  like  a  pink 
Or  tender  hyacinth,  inscribed  with  woe ; 
Such  bloody  pedagogues,  when  they  shall  know, 
By  useless  birches,  that  forlorn  recess, 
Which  is  no  holiday,  in  Fit  below, 
Will  hell  not  seem  designed  for  their  distress, — 
A  melancholy  place,  that  is  all  bottomlesse? 

Yet  Mould  the  Muse  not  chide  the  wholesome  use 
Of  needful  discipline,  in  due  degree. 
Devoid  of  sway,  what  wrongs  will  time  produce ! 
Whene'er  the  twig  untrained  grows  up  a  tree, 
This  shall  a  Carder,  that  a  Whiteboy  be, 
Ferocious  leaders  of  atrocious  bands, 
And  Learning's  help  be  used  for  infamie, 
By  lawless  clerks,  that,  with  their  bloody  hands, 
In  murdered  English  write  ltock's  murderous  commands. 

But,  ah  !  what  shrilly  cry  doth  now  alarm 
The  sooty  fowls  that  do/ed  upon  the  beam, 


THE    IRISH    SCHOOLMASTER  321 

All  sudden  fluttering  from  the  brandished  arm 
And  cackling  chorus  with  the  human  scream  ; 
Meanwhile  the  scourge  plies  that  unkindly  seam 
In  Phelim's  brogues,  which  bares  his  naked  skin, 
Like  traitor  gap  in  warlike  fort,  I  deem, 
That  falsely  lets  the  fierce  besieger  in, 
Nor  seeks  the  pedagogue  by  other  course  to  win. 

No  parent  dear  he  hath  to  heed  his  cries ;  — 
Alas  !  his  parent  dear  is  far  aloof, 
And  deep  in  Seven-Dial  cellar  lies, 
Killed  by  kind  cudgel-play,  or  gin  of  proof, 
Or  climbeth,  catwise,  on  some  London  roof, 
Singing,  perchance,  a  lay  of  Erin's  Isle, 
Or,  whilst  he  labors,  weaves  a  fancy-woof, 
Dreaming  lie  sees  his  home,  —  his  1'helim  smile; 
Ah,  me!  that  luckless  imp,  who  weepeth  all  the  while! 

Ah !  who  can  paint  that  hard  and  heavy  time, 
When  first  the  scholar  lists  in  Learning's  train, 
And  mounts  her  rugged  steep  enforced  to  climb, 
Like  sooty  imp,  by  sharp  posterior  pain, 
From  bloody  twig,  and  eke  that  Indian  cane, 
Wherein,  alas!  no  sugared  juices  dwell  ? 
For  this,  the  while  one  stripling's  sluices  drain, 
Another  weepeth  over  chilblains  fell, 
Always  upon  the  heel,  yet  never  to  be  well ! 

Anon  a  third,  for  his  delicious  root, 
Late  ravished  from  his  tooth  by  elder  chit, 
So  soon  is  human  violence  afoot. 
So  hardly  is  the  harmless  biter  bit ! 
Meanwhile,  the  tyrant,  with  untimely  wit 

« 

And  mouthing  fur.  derides  the  small  one's  moan, 
Who,  all  lamenting  for  his  loss,  doth  sil, 


322  THE    HUSH    SCHOOLMASTER. 

Alack,  —  mischance  comes  scldomtimes  alone, 
But  ay  the  worried  dog  must  rue  more  curs  than  one. 

For,  lo !  the  pedagogue,  with  sudden  drub, 
Smites  his  scald  head,  that  is  already  sore, — 
Superfluous  wound,  —  such  is  Misfortune's  rub  ! 
Who  straight  makes  answer  with  redoubled  roar, 
And  sheds  salt  tears  twice  faster  than  before, 
That  still  with  backward  fist  he  strives  to  dry ; 
Washing  with  brackish  moisture,  o'er  and  o'er, 
His  muddy  cheek,  that  grows  more  foul  thereby, 
Till  all  his  rainy  face  looks  grim  as  rainy  sky. 

So  Dan,  by  dint  of  noise,  obtains  a  peace, 
And  with  his  natural  untendcr  knack, 
By  new  distress,  bids  former  grievance  cease, 
Like  tears  dried  up  with  rugged  huckaback, 
That  sets  the  mournful  visage  all  awrack  ; 
Yet  soon  the  childish  countenance  will  shine 
Even  as  thorough  storms  the  soonest  slack, 
For  grief  and  beef  in  adverse  ways  incline, 
This  keeps,  and  that  decays,  when  duly  soaked  in  brine. 

Now,  all  is  hushed,  and,  with  a  look  profound, 
The  Dominie  lays  ope  the  learned  page  : 
(So  be  it  called)  although  he  cloth  expound 
Without  a  book,  both  Greek  and  Latin  sage ; 
Now  telleth  he  of  Rome's  rude  infant  age, 
How  Romulus  was  bred  in  savage  wood, 
By  wet-nurse  wolf,  devoid  of  wolfish  rage, 
And  laid  foundation-stone  of  walls  of  mud, 
But  watered  it,  alas !  with  warm  fraternal  blood. 

• 
Anon,  he  turns  to  that  Homeric  war, 
How  Troy  was  sieged  like  Londonderry  town; 


THE    IRISH    SCHOOLMASTER.  323 

And  stout  Achilles,  at  his  jaunting-car, 
Dragged  mighty  Hector  with  a  bloody  crown: 
•  And  eke  the  bard,  that  sung  of  their  renown, 
In  garb  of  Greece  most  beggar-like  and  torn, 
He  paints,  with  colly,  wandering  up  and  down  : 
Because,  at  once,  in  seven  cities  born  ; 
And  so,  of  parish  rights,  was,  all  his  days,  forlorn. 

Anon,  through  old  Mythology  he  goes, 
Of  gods  defunct,  and  all  their  pedigrees, 
But  shuns  their  scandalous  amours,  and  shows 
How  Plato  wise,  and  clear-eyed  Socrates, 
Confessed  not  to  those  heathen  he's  and  she's  ; 
But  through  the  clouds  of  the  Olympic  cope 
Beheld  St.  Peter  with  his  holy  keys. 
And  owned  their  love  was  nought,  and  bowed  to  Pope, 
Whilst  all  their  purblind  race  in  Pagan  mist  did  grope. 

From  such  quaint  themes  he  turns,  at  last,  aside, 
To  new  philosophies,  that  still  are  green, 
And  shows  what  railroads  have  been  tracked  to  guide 
The  wheels  of  great  political  machine ; 
If  English  corn  should  grow  abroad,  I  ween, 
And  gold  be  made  of  gold,  or  paper  sheet  ; 
How  many  pigs  be  horn  to  each  spalpeen; 
And,  ah  !    how  man  shall  thrive  beyond  his  meat,  — 
With  twenty  souls  alive  to  one  square  sod  of  peat! 

Here  he  makes  end  :  and  all  the  fry  of  youth, 
Thai  stood  around  with  serious  look  intense, 
Close  up  again  their  ga]  ing  eyes  and  mouth, 
Which  they  had  opened  to  his  eloquence, 
As  if  theh  hearing  were  a  three-fold  sense, 
Bui  now  the  current  of  his  words  is  done, 
And  whether  any  fruits  shall  spring  from  thence 


324  THE    IRISH    SCHOOLMASTER. 

In  future  time,  with  any  mother's  son  ! 
It  is  a  thing,  God  wot !  that  can  be  told  by  none. 

Now  by  the  creeping  shadows  of  the  noon, 
The  hour  is  come  to  lay  aside  their  lore ; 
The  cheerful  pedagogue  perceives  it  soon, 
And  cries  "  Begone  ! "  unto  the  imps,  —  and  four 
Snatch  their  two  hats  and  struggle  for  the  door, 
Like  ardent  spirits  vented  from  a  cask, 
All  blithe  and  boisterous,  —  but  leave  two  more, 
"With  Heading  made  Uneasy  for  a  task, 
To  weep,  whilst  all  their  mates  in  merry  sunshine  bask. 

Like  sportive  Elfins,  on  the  verdant  sod, 
With  tender  moss  so  sleekly  overgrown, 
That  doth  not  hurt,  but  kiss,  the  sole  unshod, 
So  soothly  kind  is  Erin  to  her  own  ! 
And  one,  at  Hare  and  Hound,  plays  all  alone, — 
For  Phelim's  gone  to  tend  his  step-dame's  cow; 
Ah  !  Phelim's  step-dame  is  a  cankered  crone  ! 
Whilst  other  twain  play  at  an  Irish  row, 
And,  with  shillelah  small,  break  one  another's  brow) 

But  careful  Dominie,  with  ceaseless  thrift, 
Now  changeth  ferula  for  rural  hoe  ; 
But,  first  of  all,  with  tender  hand  doth  shift 
His  college  gown,  because  of  solar  glow, 
And  hangs  it  on  a  bush,  to  scare  the  crow  : 
Meanwhile,  he  plants  in  earth  the  dappled  bean, 
Or  trains  the  young  potatoes  all  a-row, 
Or  plucks  the  fragrant  leek  for  pottage  green. 
With  that  crisp  curly  herb,  called  Kale  in  Aberdeen- 

And  so  he  wisely  spends  the  fruitful  hours, 
Linked  each  to  each  by  labor,  like  a  bee, 


™  •  325 

Or  rules  in  Learning's  hall,  or  trims  her  bowers  ; 
"Would  there  were  many  more  such  wights  as  he, 
To  sway  each  capital  academie 
Of  Cam  and  Isis  ;  for,  alack  !  at  each 
There  dwells,  I  wot,  some  dronish  Dominie, 
That  does  no  garden  work,  nor  yet  doth  teach, 
But  wears  a  floury  head,  and  talks  in  flowery  speech ! 


TO 


COMPOSED    AT    ROTTERDAM. 


I  GAZE  upon  a  city,  —  a  city  new  and  strange; 
Down  many  a  watery  vista  my  fancy  takes  a  range: 
From  side  to  side  I  saunter,  and  wonder  where  I  am  ; 
And  can  you  be  in  England,  and  /  at  Rotterdam  ! 

Before  me  lie  dark  waters,  in  broad  canals  and  deep. 
Whereon  the  silver  moonbeams  sleep,  restless  in  their 

sleep  ; 
A  sort  of  vulgar  Venice  reminds  me  where  I  am  ; 
Yes,  yes,  you  are  in  England,  and  I'm  at  Rotterdam. 

Tall  houses  with  (plaint  gables,  where  frequent  windows 

shine, 
And  quays  that  lead  to  bridges,  and  trees  in  formal  line, 
And  masts  of  spicj  vessels  from  western  Surinam. 
All  tell  me  you're  in   England,  but  I'm  in  Rotterdam. 

Those  sailors,  how  outlandish  the  face  and  form  of  each! 
Thej  de.il  in  foreign  gestures,  and  use  a  foreign  speech; 
A  tongue  not  learned  near  Ms.  or  studied  by  the  Cam, 
declares  that  you're  in  England,  and  I'm  at  Rotterdam. 
28 


•°)2fi  LOVE. 

And  now  across  a  market  my  doubtful  way  I  trace, 
Where  stands  a  solemn  statue,  the  Genius  of  the  place ; 
And  to  the  great  Erasmus  I  offer  my  salaam, 
Who  tells  me  you're  in  England,  but  I'm  at  Rotterdam. 

The  coffee-room  is  open  —  I  mingle  in  its  crowd  — 
The  dominos  are  noisy  —  the  hookahs  raise  a  cloud  ; 
The  flavor  now  of  Fearon's,  that  mingles  with  my  dram, 
Reminds  me  you're  in  England,  and  I'm  at  Rotterdam. 

Then  here  it  goes,  a  bumper  — the  toast  it  shall  be  mine, 
In  scheidam,  or  in  sherry,  tokay,  or  hock  of  Rhine; 
It  well  deserves  the  brightest,  where  sunbeam  ever  swam  — ■ 
"The  Girl  I  love  in  England  "  I  drink  at  Rotterdam ! 

March,  1S35. 


LOVE. 

0,  Love  !  what  art  thou,  Love  ?  the  ace  of  hearts, 
Trumping  earth's  kings  and  queens,  and  all  its  suitsr 

A  player,  masquerading  many  parts 

In  life's  odd  carnival ;  —  a  boy  that  shoots, 

From  ladies'  eyes,  such  mortal  woundv  darts  ; 
A  gardener,  pulling  heart's-ease  up  by  the  roots ; 

The  Puck  of  Passion  —  partly  false  —  part  real  — 

A  marriageable  maiden's  "  beau  ideal  "  ? 

O,  Love  !  what  art  thou.  Love  ?  a  wicked  thing, 
Making  green  misses  spoil  their  work  at  school; 

A  melancholv  man.  cross-srarterine  ! 

Grave  ripe-faced  Wisdom  made  an  April  fool? 

A  youngster,  tilting  at  a  wedding-ring? 
A  sinner,  sitting  on  a  cuttie-stool  ? 

A  Ferdinand  de  Something  in  a  hovel, 

Helping  Matilda  Rose  to  make  a  novel  ? 


A  gardener  pulling  heartsease  up  by  the  roots. 


Love. — Page  S26. 


THE    SEASON.  327 

0,  Love  !  what  art  thou,  Love  ?  one  that  is  bad 
With  palpitations  of  the  heart  —  like  mine  — 

A  poor  bewildered  maid,  making  so  sad 
A  necklace  of  her  garters  —  fell  design  ! 

A  poet,  gone  unreasonably  mad, 

Ending  his  sonnets  with  a  hempen  line  ? 

O,  Love  !  —  but  whither,  now  ?  forgive  me,  pray  ; 

I'm  not  the  first  that  Love  hath  led  astray. 


THE   SEASON. 

Summer's  gone  and  over  ! 

Fogs  are  falling  down  ; 
And  with  russet  tinges 

Autumn's  doing  brown. 

Boughs  are  daily  rifled 
By  the  gusty  thieves, 

And  the  Book  of  Nature 
Getteth  short  of  leaves. 

Bound  the  tops  of  houses, 
Swallows,  as  they  flit, 

dive,  like  yearly  tenants, 
Notices  to  quit. 

Skies,  of  tickle  temper. 

Weep  by  turns,  and  laugh  - 
Night  and  Day  together 

Taking  half-and-half. 

So  September  endeth  — 

Cold,  and  most  perverse  — 
But  the  month  that  follows 
Sure  will  pinch  us  worse  ! 


328  FAITHLESS    SALLY    H110WN. 


FAITHLESS   SALLY   BROWN. 

AN    OLD    BALLAD. 

Young  Ben  he  was  a  nice  young  man, 

A  carpenter  by  trade  ; 
And  he  fell  in  love  with  Sally  Brown, 

That  was  a  lady's  maid. 

But  as  they  fetched  a  walk  one  day, 

They  met  a  press-gang  crew ; 
And  Sally  she  did  faint  away, 

Whilst  Ben  he  was  brought  to. 

The  boatswain  swore  with  wicked  words, 

Enough  to  shock  a  saint, 
That  though  she  did  seem  in  a  fit, 

Twas  nothing  but  a  feint. 

"  Come,  girl,"  said  he,  "  hold  up  your  head, 

He'll  be  as  good  as  me  ; 
For  when  your  swain  is  in  our  boat, 

A  boatswain  he  will  be." 

So  when  they'd  made  their  game  of  her, 

And  taken  off  her  elf, 
She  roused,  and  found  she  only  was 

A  coming  to  herself. 

"  And  is  he  gone,  and  is  he  gone  ?  " 

She  cried,  and  wept  outright : 
"  Then  I  will  to  the  water  side, 

A  nd  sec  linn  out  of  sight." 


FAITHLESS    SALLY    BROWN.  329 

A  waterman  came  up  to  her,  — 

"  Now,  young  woman,"  said  he, 
"  If  you  weep  on  so,  you  will  make 

Eye-water  in  the  sea." 

"  Alas  !  they've  taken  my  heau,  Ben, 

To  sail  with  old  Benbow  ;  " 
And  her  woe  began  to  run  afresh, 

As  if  she'd  said,  Gee  woe  ! 

Says  he,  "  They've  only  taken  him 

To  the  Tender-ship,  you  see  ;  " 
"  The  Tender-ship,"  cried  Sally  Brown, 

"  What  a  hard-ship  that  must  be  ! 

"  O  !  would  I  were  a  mermaid  now, 

For  then  I'd  follow  him  ; 
But,  0  !  —  I'm  not  a  fish-woman, 

And  so  I  cannot  swim. 

"  Alas !  I  was  not  born  beneath 

The  virgin  and  the  scales, 
So  I  must  curse  my  cruel  stars, 

And  walk  about  in  Wales." 

Now  Ben  had  sailed  to  many  a  place 

That's  underneath  the  world  ; 
But  in  two  years  the  ship  came  home, 

And  all  her  sails  were  furled. 

Bui  when  he  called  on  Sally  Brown, 

'I'n  see  li'iw  slir  gol  "!i. 
He  found  she'd  got  another  Ben, 

Whose  Christian  name  was  John. 
28  ' 


830  bianca's  dream. 

"  O,  Sally  Brown,  0,  Sally  Brown, 
How  could  you  serve  me  so  ? 

I've  met  with  many  a  breeze  before, 
But  never  such  a  blow !  " 

Then  reading  on  his  'bacco-box, 

He  heaved  a  heavy  sigh, 
And  then  began  to  eye  his  pipe, 

And  then  to  pipe  his  eye. 

And  then  he  tried  to  sing  "  All's  Well," 
But  could  not,  though  he  tried  ; 

His  head  was  turned,  and  so  he  chewed 
His  pigtail  till  he  died. 

His  death,  which  happened  in  his  berth, 

At  forty-odd  befell : 
They  went  and  told  the  sexton,  and 

The  sexton  tolled  the  bell. 


BIANCA'S  DBEAM. 

A     \  ENETIAN    STORY. 

BlANCA  !  —  fair  Bianca  !  —  who  could  dwell 
With  safety  on  her  dark  and  hazel  gaze, 

Nor  find  there  lurked  in  it  a  witching  spell, 
Fatal  to  balmy  nights  and  blessed  days? 

The  peaceful  breath  that  made  the  bosom  swell 
She  turned  to  gas.  and  set  it  in  a  blaze; 

Each  eye  of  hers  had  Love's  Eupyrion  in  it, 

That  he  could  light  his  link  at  in  a  minute. 

So  that,  wherever  in  her  charms  she  shone, 
A  thousand  breasts  were  kindled  into  flame ; 


bianca's  dream.  331 

Maidens  who  cursed  her  looks  forgot  their  own, 

And  beaux  were  turned  to  flambeaux  where  she  came; 

All  hearts  indeed  were  conquered  but  her  own, 
Which  none  could  ever  temper  down  or  tame  : 

In  short,  to  take  our  haberdasher's  hints, 

She  might  have  written  over  it,  —  "  From  Flints." 

She  was,  in  truth,  the  wonder  of  her  sex, 

At  least  in  Venice  —  where  with  eyes  of  brown, 

Tenderly  languid,  ladies  seldom  vex 

An  amorous  gentle  with  a  needless  frown  ; 

Where  gondolas  convey  guitars  by  pecks, 

And  love  at  casements  climbcth  up  and  down, 

Whom,  for  his  tricks  and  custom  in  that  kind, 

Some  have  considered  a  Venetian  blind. 

Howbeit,  this  difference  was  quickly  taught, 

Amongst  more  youths  who  had  this  cruel  jailer, 

To  hapless  Julio  —  all  in  vain  he  sought 

With  each  new  moon  his  hatter  and  his  tailor; 

In  vain  the  richest  padusoy  he  bought, 

And  went  in  bran-new  heaver  to  assail  her  — 

As  if  to  show  that  Love  had  mad  ■  him  smart 

All  over —  and  not  merely  round  his  heart. 

In  vain  he  labored  through  the  sylvan  park 
Bianea  haunted  in  —  that  where  she  came 

Her  learned  eyes  in  wandering  might  mark 
The  twist  d  cipher  of  her  maiden  name, 

Wholesomely  going  through  a  con  le  of  bark: 
No  one  wis  touched  or  troubled  by  his  flame. 

Except  the  Dryads,  those  old  maids  that  grow 

In  trees, —  like  wooden  dolls  in  embryo. 

In  vain  complaining  elegies  he  writ, 

And  taught  his  tuneful  instrument  to  grieve, 


332  BIANCA  S    DREAM. 

And  sang  in  quavers  how  his  heart  was  split, 
Constant  beneath  her  lattice  with  each  eve; 

She  mocked  his  wooing  with  her  wicked  wit, 

And  slashed  his  suit  so  that  it  matched  his  sleeve, 

Till  he  grew  silent  at  the  vesper  star, 

And,  quite  despairing,  hamstringed  his  guitar. 

Bianca's  heart  was  coldly  frosted  o'er 

With  snows  unmelting  —  an  eternal  sheet; 

But  his  was  red  within  him,  like  the  core 
Of  old  Vesuvius,  with  perpetual  heat ; 

And  oft  he  longed  internally  to  pour 

His  flames  and  glowing  lava  at  her  feet, 

But  when  his  burnings  he  began  to  spout, 

She  stopped  his  mouth,  and  put  the  crater  out. 

Meanwhile  he  wasted  in  the  eyes  of  men, 
So  thin,  he  seemed  a  sort  of  skeleton-key 

Suspended  at  Death's  door  —  so  pale  —  and  then 
He  turned  as  nervous  as  an  aspen-tree  ; 

The  life  ot  man  is  three-score  years  and  ten, 
But  he  was  perishing  at  twenty-three, 

For  people  truly  said,  as  grief  grew  stronger, 

"  It  could  not  shorten  his  poor  life  —  much  longer." 

For  why,  he  neither  slept,  nor  drank,  nor  fed, 
Nor  relished  any  kind  of  mirth  below  ; 

Fire  in  his  heart,  and  frenzy  in  his  head, 
Love  had  become  his  universal  foe, 

Salt  in  his  sugar  —  nightmare  in  his  bed, 
At  hist,  no  wonder  wretched  Julio, 

A  sorrow-ridden  thing,  in  utter  dearth 

Of  hope,  —  made  up  his  mind  to  cut  her  girth! 

For  hapless  lovers  always  died  of  old, 
Sooner  than  chew  reflection's  bitter  cud  ; 


bianca's  dream.  333 

So  Thisbe  stuck  herself,  what  time  'tis  told 
The  tender-hearted  mulberries  wept  blood  : 

And  so  poor  Sappho,  when  her  boy  was  cold, 
Drowned  her  salt  tear-drops  in  a  salter  flood, 

Their  fame  still  breathing,  though  their  breath  be  past, 

For  those  old  suitors  lived  beyond  then-  last. 

So  Julio  went  to  drown,  —  when  life  was  dull, 
But  took  his  corks,  and  merely  had  a  bath ; 

And  once,  he  pulled  a  trigger  at  his  skull, 
But  merely  broke  a  window  in  his  wrath  ; 

And  once,  his  hopeless  being  to  annul, 
He  tied  a  pack-thread  to  a  beam  of  lath, 

A  line  so  ample,  'twas  a  query  whether 

Twas  meant  to  be  a  halter  or  a  tether. 

Smile  not  in  scorn,  that  Julio  did  not  thrust 
His  sorrows  through  —  'tis  horrible  to  die; 

And  come  down  with  our  little  all  of  dust. 
That  dun  of  all  the  duns  to  satisfy  ; 

To  leave  life's  pleasant  city  as  we  must. 

In  Death's  most  dreary  sponging-house  to  lie, 

Where  even  all  our  personals  must  go 

To  pay  t he  debt,  of  nature  that  we  owe  ! 

So  Julio  lived  :  — 'twas  nothing  but  a  pet 

He  took  at  life  —  a  momentary  spite; 
Besides,  he  hoped  that  time  would  some  day  get 

The  better  of  love's  flame,  however  bright. 
A  thing  that  time  has  never  compassed  yet, 

For  love,  we  know,  is  an  immortal  light 
Like  thai  old  lire,  that,  quite  beyond  a  doubt, 
Was  always  in, — for  none  have  found  it  out. 

Meanwhile,  Bianca  dreamed    -'t\\  is  once  when  night 
.Along  the  darkened  plain  began  to  creep, 


334  BIANCA'S    DItE.VM. 

Like  a  young  Hottentot,  whose  eyes  are  bright, 
Although  in  skin  as  sooty  as  a  sweep : 

The  flowers  had  shut  their  eyes  —  the  zephyr  light 
Was  -'one,  for  it  had  rocked  the  leaves  to  Bleep, 

And  all  the  little  birds  had  laid  their  heads 

Under  their  wings  —  sleeping  in  leather  beds. 

Lone  in  her  chamber  sate  the  dark-eyed  maid, 
By  easy  stages  jaunting  through  her  prayers, 

But  listening  side  long  to  a  serenade. 

That  robbed  the  saints  a  little  of  their  shares  ; 

For  Julio  underneath  the  lattice  played 
His  Dch  Vieni,  and  such  amorous  airs, 

Born  only  underneath  Italian  sides, 

Where  every  fiddle  has  a  Bridge  of  Sighs. 

Sweet  was  the  tune  —  the  words  were  even  sweeter, 
Praising  her  eyes,  her  lips,  her  nose,  her  hair, 

With  all  the  common  tropes  wherewith  in  metre 
The  hackney  poets  overcharge  their  fair. 

Her  shape  was  like  Diana's,  but  completer  ; 
Her  brow  with  Grecian  Helen's  might  compare. 

Cupid,  alas!  was  cruel  Sagittarius, 

Julio  —  the  weeping  waterman  Aquarius. 

Now,  after  listing  to  such  landings  rare, 

'Twas  very  natural  indeed  to  "o  — 
What  if  she  did  postpone  one  little  prayer!  — 

To  ask  her  mirror  "  if  it  was  not  so  p  " 
Twas  a  large  mirror,  none  the  worse  for  wear, 

Beilecting  her  at  once  from  top  to  toe : 
And  there  she  gazed  upon  that  glossy  track, 
That  showed  her  front  face,  though  it  "  gave  her  back. 

And  long  her  lovely  eyes  were  held  in  thrall, 

By  that  dear  page  where  first  the  woman  reads : 


bianca's  dream.  335 

That  Julio  was  no  flatterer,  none  at  all. 

She  told  herself — and  then  she  told  her  beads 

Meanwhile,  the  nerves  insensibly  let  fall 
Two  curtains  fairer  than  the  lily  breeds; 

For  sleep  had  crept  and  kissed  her  unawares, 

Just  at  the  half-way  milestone  of  her  prayers. 

Then  like  a  drooping  rose  so  bended  she, 
Till  her  bowed  head  upon  her  hand  reposed ; 

But  still  she  plainly  saw,  or  seemed  to  see, 

That  fair  reflection,  though  her  eyes  were  closed, 

A  beauty  bright,  as  it  was  wont  to  be, 

A  portrait  Fancy  painted  while  she  dozed : 

Tis  very  natural,  some  people  say, 

To  dream  of  what  we  dwell  on  in  the  day. 

Still  shone  her  face  —  yet  not,  alas  !  the  same, 
But  'gan  some  dreary  touches  to  assume, 

And  sadder  thoughts  with  sadder  changes  came — 
Her  eyes  resigned  their  light,  her  lips  their  bloom, 

Her  teeth  fell  out,  her  tresses  did  the  same, 

1  ler  cheeks  were  tinged  with  bile,  her  eyes  with  rheum  : 

There  was  a  throbbing  at  her  heart  within, 

For,  O !  there  was  a  shooting  in  her  chin. 

And,  lo !  upon  her  sad  desponding  brow 

The  cruel  trenches  of  besieging  age, 
With  seuns,  but  most  unseemly,  'gan  to  show 

Her  place  was  booking  for  the  seventh  sta^e  ; 
And  where  her  raven  tresses  used  to  How, 

Some  locks  that  time  had  left  her  in  his  rage, 
Ami  some  mock  ringlets,  made  her  forehead  shady, 
A  compound  (like  our  1'salms)  of  tete  and  braidv. 

Then  for  her  shape  —  alas!   how  Saturn  wrecks, 
And  bends,  and  corkscrews  all  the  frame  about, 


336  bianca's  dream. 

Doubles  the  hams,  and  crooks  the  straightest  necks, 
Draws  in  the  nape,  and  pushes  forth  the  snout, 

Makes  backs  and  stomachs  concave  or  convex  : 
Witness  those  pensioners  called  In  and  Out, 

Who,  all  day  watching  first  and  second  rater, 

Quaintly  unbend  themselves  —  but  grow  no  straighter 

So  time  with  fair  Bianca  dealt,  and  made 

Her  shape  a  bow,  that  once  was  like  an  arrow ; 

His  iron  hand  upon  her  spine  he  laid, 

And  twisted  all  awry  her  "  winsome  marrow." 

In  truth  it  was  a  change  !  —  she  had  obeyed 
The  holy  Pope  before  her  chest  grew  narrow, 

But  spectacles  and  palsy  seemed  to  make  her 

Something  between  a  Glassite  and  a  Quaker. 

Her  grief  and  gall  meanwhile  were  quite  extreme, 
And  she  had  ample  reason  for  her  trouble; 

For  what  sad  maiden  can  endure  to  seem 

Set  in  for  singleness,  though  growing  double  ? 

The  fancy  maddened  her ;  hut  now  the  dream, 
Grown  thin  by  getting  bigger,  like  a  bubble, 

Burst, —  but  still  left  some  fragments  of  its  size, 

That,  like  the  soap-suds,  smarted,  in  her  eyes. 

And  here  — just  here  —  as  she  began  to  heed 
The  real  world,  her  clock  chimed  out  its  score; 

A  clock  it  was  of  the  Venetian  breed, 

That  cried  the  hour  from  one  to  twenty-four. 

The  works  moreover  standing  in  some  need 
Of  workmanship,  it  struck  some  doz< -us  more; 

A  warning  voice  that  clenched  Bianca's  fears, 

Such  strokes  referring  doubtless  to  her  years. 

At  fifteen  chimes  she  was  but  half  a  nun, 
By  twenty  she  h„d  quite  renounced  the  veil ; 


bianca's  dream.  337 

She  thought  of  Julio  just  at  twenty-one, 
And  thirty  made  her  very  sad  and  pale, 

To  paint  that  ruin  where  her  charms  would  run ; 
At  forty  all  the  maid  began  to  fail, 

And  thought  no  higher,  as  the  late  dream  crossed  her, 

Of  single  blessedness,  than  single  Gloster. 

And  so  Bianca  changed  ;  —  the  next  sweet  even, 

With  Julio  in  a  black  Venetian  bark, 
]  towed  slow  and  stealthily  —  the  hour,  eleven, 

Just  sounding  from  the  tower  old  St.  Mark, 
She  sate  with  eyes  turned  quietly  to  heaven, 

Perchance  rejoicing  in  the  grateful  dark 
That  veiled  her  blushing  cheek,  —  for  Julio  brought  her 
Of  course  —  to  break  the  ice  upon  the  water. 

But  what  a  puzzle  is  one's  serious  mind 
To  open  !  —  oysters,  when  the  ice  is  thick, 

Are  not  so  difficult  and  disinclined  ; 
And  Julio  felt  the  declaration  stick 

About  his  throat  in  a  most  awful  kind; 
However,  he  contrived  by  bits  to  pick 

His  trouble  forth, — much  like  a  rotten  cork 

Groped  from  a  long-necked  bottle  with  a  fork. 

But  Love  is  still  the  quickest  of  all  readers ; 

And  Julio  spent,  besides  those  signs  profuse 
Thai  English  telegraphs  and  foreign  pleaders, 

In  help  of  language,  are  so  apt  to  use, 
Anns,  shoulders,  fingers,  all  were  interceders, 

Nods,  shrugs  and  bends. —  Bianca  could  not  choose 
Bui  soften  to  his  suit  with  more  facility, 
He  told  his  story  with  so  much  agility. 

"  Be  thou  my  park,  and  I  will  be  thj  dear, 
(So  he  began  at  last  to  speak  or  quote  ;) 
29 


338  bianca's  dream. 

Be  thou  my  bark,  and  I  thy  gondolier, 
(For  passion  takes  this  figurative  note;) 

Be  thou  my  light,  and  1  thy  chandelier; 
Be  thou  my  dove,  and  1  will  be  thy  cote; 

My  lily  be,  and  I  will  be  thy  river  ; 

Be  thou  my  life  —  and  I  will  be  thy  liver." 

This,  with  more  tender  logic  of  the  kind, 
He  poured  into  her  small  and  shell-like  ear, 

That  timidly  against  his  lips  inclined  : 

Meanwhile  her  eyes  glanced  on  the  silver  sphere 

That  even  now  began  to  steal  behind 
A  dewy  vapor,  which  was  lingering  near, 

Wherein  the  dull  moon  crept  all  dim  and  pale, 

Just  like  a  virgin  putting  on  the  veil  :  — 

Bidding  adieu  to  all  her  sparks  —  the  stars, 

That  erst  had  wooed  and  worshipped  in  her  train 

Saturn  and  Hesperus,  and  gallanl  -Mars  — 
Never  to  flirt  with  heavenly  eyes  again. 

Meanwhile,  remindful  of  the  convent  bars, 
Bianca  did  not  watch  these  signs  in  vain, 

But  turned  to  Julio  at  the  dark  eclipse, 

With  words,  like  verbal  kisses,  on  her  lips. 

He  took  the  hint  full  speedily,  and,  backed 

By  love,  and  night,  and  the  occasion's  meetnese, 

Bestowed  a  something  on  her  check  thai  smacked 
(Though  quite  in  silence)  op  ambrosial  sweetness; 

That  made  her  think  all  other  kisses  lacked 

Till  then,  but  what  she  knew  not,  of  completeness: 
Being  used  but  sisterly  salutes  to  feel, 
Insipid  tilings  —  like  sandwiches  of  veal. 

He  took  her  hand,  and  soon  she  felt  him  wring 
The  pretty  fingers  all,  instead  of  one; 


OVEK    THE    WAY.  339 

Anon  his  stealthy  arm  began  to  cling 

About  her  waist  that  had  been  clasped  by  none ; 

Their  dear  confessions  I  forbear  to  sing, 

Since  cold  description  would  but  be  outrun ; 

For  bliss  and  Irish  watches  have  the  power 

In  twenty  minutes  to  lose  half  an  hour ! 


OVER  THE  WAY. 

"  I  sat  over  against  a  window  where  there  stood  a  pot  with  very 
pretty  flowers;  and  had  my  eyes  fixed  on  it.  when  on  a  sudden  the 
window  opened,  and  a  young  lady  appeared  whoso  beauty  struck 
me."  —  Arabian  Nights. 

Alas  !  the  flames  of  an  unhappy  lover 
About  my  heart  and  on  my  vitals  prey  ; 
I've  caught  a  fever  that  I  can't  get  over, 
Over  the  way  ! 

0  !  why  are  eyes  of  hazel  ?  noses  Grecian  P 
I've  lost  my  rest  by  night,  my  peace  by  day, 
Tor  want  of  some  brown  Holland  or  Venetian, 

Over  the  way  ! 

I've  gazed  too  often,  till  my  heart's  as  lost 
As  any  needle  in  a  stack  of  hay  : 
Crosses  belong  to  love,  and  mine  is  crossed 
Over  the  waj  ! 

1  cannot  read  or  write,  or  thoughts  relax  — 
Of  what  avail  Lord  Althorpe  or  Earl  Grey  ? 
They  cannot,  ease  me  of  my  window-tax 

Over  the  way ! 

Even  mi  Sunday  my  devotions  vary, 
And  from  St.  Unmet   flint  they  go  astray 
To  dear  S,.  Mar)  Over)  — the  Mary 
Over  the  way ! 


r 


MO  OVER   THE    WAY. 

0  !  if  my  godmother  were  but  a  fair}-, 
With  magic  wand,  how  I  Mould  beg  and  pray 
That  she  would  change  me  into  that  canary 

Over  the  way  ! 

1  envy  every  thing  that's  near  Miss  Lindo, 
A  pug,  a  poll,  a  squirrel  or  a  jay  — 

Blest  blue-bottles !  that  buzz  about  the  window 

Over  the  way  ! 

Even  at  even,  for  there  be  no  shutters, 
1  see  her  reading  on  from  grave  to  gay, 
Some  tale  or  poem,  till  the  candle  gutters, 

Over  the  way  ! 

And  then  —  O !  then  —  while  the  clear  waxen  taper 
Emits,  two  stories  high,  a  starlike  ray, 
I  sec  twelve  auburn  cm-Is  put  into  paper 

Over  the  way ! 

But  how  breathe  unto  her  my  deep  regards, 
Or  ask  her  for  a  whispered  ay  or  nay,  — 
Or  offer  her  my  hand,  sonic  thirty  yards 

<  Kit  the  way  ! 

Cold  as  the  pole  she  is  to  my  adoring; 
Like  Captain  Lyon,  at  Repulse's  Bay, 
1  meet  an  icy  end  to  mj  exploring 

Over  the  way  ! 

Each  dirty  little  Savoyard  that  dances 
She  looks  on  —  Punch —  or  chimney-sweeps  in  May 
Zounds!  where/ore  cannot  I  attract  her  glances 

Over  the  way  ! 

Half  out  she  leans  to  watch  a  tumbling  brat, 
Or  yelping  cur,  run  over  by  a  dray  ; 
But  I'm  in  love — she  never  pities  that! 

Over  the  way  ! 


OVER    THE    WAY.  341 

I  go  to  the  same  church  —  a  love-lost  labor  ; 
Haunt  all  her  walks,  and  dodge  her  at  the  play; 
She  does  not  seem  to  know  she  has  a  neighbor 

Over  the  way ! 

At  private  theatres  she  never  acts  ; 
No  Crown-and- Anchor  balls  her  fancy  sway  ; 
She  never  visits  gentlemen  with  tracts 

Over  the  way ! 

To  billets-doux  by  post  she  shows  no  favor  — 
In  short  there  is  no  plot  that  I  can  lay 
To  break  my  window-pains  to  my  enslaver 

Over  the  way  ! 

I  play  the  (lute  —  she  heeds  not  my  chromatics  — 
No  friend  an  introduction  can  purvey  ; 
I  wish  a  lire  would  break  out  in  the  attics 

Over  the  way  ! 

My  wasted  form  ought  of  itself  to  touch  her  : 
My  baker  feels  my  appetite's  decay  ; 
And  as  for  butcher's  meat  —  0!  she's  my  butcher 

Over  the  way  ! 

At  beef  I  turn  ;   at  lamb  or  vtal  I  pout; 
I  never  ring  now  to  bring  up  the  tray  ; 
My  stomach  grumbles  at  my  dining  out 

()\er  the  way  ! 

I'm  weary  of  my  life  :   without  regret 
I  could  resign  this  miserable  claj 
To  lie  within  that  box  of  mignonette 

Over  the  way  ! 
29  * 


312  OVER   THE    MAY. 

I've  fitted  bullets  to  my  pistol-bore ; 
I've  vowed  at  times  to  rush  where  trumpets  bray, 
Quite  sick  of  Number  One  —  and  Number  Four 

Over  the  way  ! 

Sometimes  my  fancy  builds  up  castles  airy, 
Sometimes  it  only  paint*  a  ferme  ornee, 
A  horse  —  a  cow  —  six  fowls  —  a  pig  —  and  Mary, 

Over  the  way  ! 

Sometimes  I  dream  of  her  in  bridal  white, 
Standing  before  the  altar,  like  a  fay  ; 
Sometimes  of  balls,  and  neighborly  invite 

Over  the  way  ! 

I've  cooed  with  her  in  dreams,  like  any  turtle ; 
I've  snatched  her  from  the  Clyde,  the  Tweed,  and  Tay: 
Thrice  I  have  made  a  grove  of  that  one  myrtle 

Over  the  way  ! 

Thrice  I  have  rowed  her  in  a  fairy  shallop, 
Thrice  raced  to  Gretna  in  a  neat  "  po-shay," 
And  showered  crowns  to  make  the  horses  gallop 

Over  the  way ! 

And  thrice  I've  started  up  from  dreams  appalling 
Of  killing  rivals  in  a  bloody  fray  — 
There  is  a  young  man  very  fond  of  calling 

Over  the  way  ! 

O  !  happy  man  —  above  rll  kings  in  glory, 
Whoever  in  her  ear  may  say  his  say. 
And  add  a  talc  of  love  to  that  one  story 

Over  the  way ! 


EPICUREAN    REMINISCENCES.  343 

Nabob  of  Arcot  —  Despot  of  Japan  — 
Sultan  of  Persia  —  Emperor  of  Catbay  — 
Much  rather  would  I  be  the  happy  man 

Over  the  way  ! 

With  such  a  lot  my  heart  would  be  in  clover  — 
But  what  —  O,  horror !  —  what  do  I  survey ! 
Postilions  and  white  favors !  —  all  is  over 

Over  the  way ! 


EPICUREAN  REMINISCENCES   OF   A   SENTI- 
MENTALIST. 

"  My  Tables  .'    Meat  i;  is,  /  set  it  down  I  "  —  II AHLEI. 

I  THTXK  it  was  Spring  —  but  not  certain  I  am  -~ 

When  my  passion  began  first  to  work  ; 
But  I  know  we  were  certainly  looking  for  lamb, 

And  the  season  was  over  for  pork. 

Twas  at  Christmas,  I  think,  when  I  met  with  Miss  Chase, 
Yes,  — for  Morris  had  asked  me  to  dine, — 

And  I  thought  I  had  never  beheld  such  a  face, 
Or  so  noble  a  turkey  and  chine. 

Placed  close  by  her  side,  it  made  others  quite  wild 

With  sheer  envy  to  witness  my  luck  ; 
How  she  blushed  as  I  gave  her  some  turtle,  and  smiled 

As  I  afterwards  offered  some  duck. 

I  looked  and  1  languished,  alas!  to  my  cost, 
Through  three  c  lurses  of  dishes  and  meat-: 

Getting  deeper  in  love  —  but  my  heart  was  quite  lost, 
When  it  came  to  the  trifle  and  sweets! 

With  a  rent-roll  that  told  of  my  houses  and  land, 
To  her  parents  I  told  my  designs  — 


344  EPICUREAN    REMINISCENCES. 

And  then  to  herself  I  presented  my  hand, 
"With  a  very  fine  pottle  of  pines  3 

I  asked  her  to  have  me  for  weal  or  for  woe, 
And  she  did  not  object  in  the  least;  — 

I  can't  tell  the  date  —  but  we  married,  I  know, 
Just  in  time  to  have  game  at  the  feast. 

We  went  to ,  it  certainly  was  the  sea-side ; 

For  the  next,  the  most  blessed  of  morns, 
I  remember  how  fondly  I  gazed  at  my  bride, 

Sitting  down  to  a  plateful  of  prawns. 

O,  never  may  memory  lose  sight  of  that  year, 
But  still  hallow  the  time  as  it  ought ! 

That  season  the  "  grass  "  was  remarkably  dear, 
And  the  peas  at  a  guinea  a  quart. 

So  happy,  like  hours,  all  our  days  seemed  to  haste, 
A  fond  pair,  such  as  poets  have  drawn, 

So  united  in  heart  —  so  congenial  in  taste  — 
We  were  both  of  us  partial  to  brawn  ! 

A  long  life  I  looked  for  of  bliss  with  my  bride, 
But  then  Death  —  I  ne'er  dreamt  about  that ! 

O,  there's  nothing  is  certain  in  life,  as  I  cried 
When  my  turbot  eloped  with  the  cat ! 

My  dearest  took  ill  at  the  turn  of  the  year, 
But  the  cause  no  physician  could  nab; 

But  something  it  seemed  like  consumption,  I  fear,  - 
It  was  just  after  supping  on  crab. 

In  vain  she  was  doctored,  in  vain  she  was  dosed, 
Still  her  strength  and  her  appetite  pined ; 

She  lost  relish  for  what  she  had  relished  the  most, 
Even  salmon  she  deeply  declined ! 


THE    CARELESSE    NURSE    MAYD.  345 

For  months  still  I  lingered  in  hope  and  in  doubt, 
While  her  form  it  grew  wasted  and  thin  ; 

But  the  last  dying  spark  of  existence  went  out, 
As  the  oysters  were  just  coming  in! 

She  died,  and  she  left  me  the  saddest  of  men, 

To  indulge  in  a  widower's  moan  ; 
O,  I  felt  all  the  power  of  solitude  then, 

As  1  ate  my  first  natives  alone ! 

But  when  I  beheld  Virtue's  friends  in  their  cloaks, 

And  with  sorrowful  crape  on  their  hats, 
0,  my  grief  poured  a  Hood  !  and  the  out-of-door  folks 

Were  all  crying  —  I  think  it  was  sprats! 


THE  CARELESS  E   NURSE   MAYD. 

I  SAWK  a  Mayd  sitte  on  a  Bank, 

Beguiled  by  Wooer  fayne  and  fond  ; 

And  whiles  His  flatterynge  Vowes  She  drank, 

Her  Nurselynge  slipt  within  a  Pond  ! 

All  Even  Tide  they  Talkde  and  Kist, 
For  She  was  fayre  and  lie  was  Kinde; 
The  Sunne  went  down  before  She  wist 
Another  Sonne  had  sett  behinde  ! 

With  angrie  Hands  and  frownynge  Browe, 
That  deemd  Her  owne  the  Urchine's  Sinne, 
She  pluckl   Him  out,  but  he  was  nowe 
Vast  being  Whip!  lor  fallynge  in. 

She  then  beginnes  to  wayle  the  Ladde 
With  Shrikes  that  Echo  answerede  round  — 
O!  foolishe  Mayd  to  he  soe  sadde 
The  Momente  that  her  Care  was  drownd ! 


346 


ODE    TO    PERRY. 


ODE   TO  PERRY, 

THE  INVENTOR  OF  THE  PATENT  PERRYAN  PEN. 

"In  this  good  work,  Penn  appears  the  greatest,  usefuUeet  of  God'g 
instruments.  Finn  ;i  ml  unbending  when  the  exigency  requires  it— 
soft  and  yielding  when  rigid  inflexibility  is  not  a  desideratum— fluent 
and  flowing,  at  need,  for  eloquent  rapidity  —  slow  and  retentive  in 
cases  of  deliberation  —  never  spluttering  or  by  amplification  going 
wide  of  the  mark  —  never  splitting,  if  it  can  be  helped,  with  anyone, 
but  ready  to  wear  itself  out  rather  in  their  service  — all  things  as  it 
were  with  all  men,  —  ready  to  embrace  the  hand  of  Jew,  Christian,  or 
Mahometan.  — heavy  with  the  German,  light  with  the  Italian,  ob- 
lique with  the  English, upright  with  the  Roman,  backward  in  coming 
forward  with  the  Hebrew,  — in  short,  for  flexibility,  amiability,  con- 
stitutional durability,  general  ability,  and  universal  utility,  it  would 
be  hard  to  find  a  parallel  to  the  great  Penn."  —  Perry's  Character- 
istics of  a  Settlor. 

O  !  PATENT  Pen-inventing-  Perrian  Perry  ! 

Friend  of  the  goose  and  gander, 
That  now  unplucked  of  their  quill-feathers  wander, 
Cackling,  and  gabbling,  dabbling,  making  merry, 

About  the  happy  fen, 
Untroubled  for  one  penny-worth  of  pen, 
For  which  they  chant  thy  praise  all  Britain  through, 

From  Goose-Green  unto  Gander-Cleugh ! — 

* 

Friend  to  all  Author-kind, — 
"Whether  of  Poet  or  of  Proser,  — 
Thou  art  composer  unto  the  composer 
Of  pens, — yea,  patent  vehicles  for  Mind 
To  carry  it  on  jaunts,  or  more  extensive 

Peregrinations  through  the  realms  of  thought; 
Each  plying  from  the  Comic  to  the  Pensive, 

An  Omnibus  of  intellectual  sort ! 

Modern  improvements  in  their  course  we  fed ; 
And  while  to  iron-railroads  heavy  wares, 


ODE    TO    PERRY.  347 

Dry  goods,  and  human  bodies,  pay  their  fares, 

Mind  flies  on  steel, 
To  Penrith,  Penrhyn,  even  to  Penzance ; 

Nay,  penetrates,  perchance, 
To  Pennsylvania,  or,  without  rash  vaunts, 
To  where  the  Penguin  haunts  ! 

In  times  bygone,  when  each  man  cut  Ins  quill, 

With  little  Perryan  skill, 
What  horrid,  awkward,  bungling  tools  of  trade 
Appeared  the  writing  implements  home-made  ! 
What  Pens  were  sliced,  hewed,  hacked,  and  haggled  out, 
Slit  or  unslit,  with  many  a  various  snout, 
Aquiline,  Roman,  crooked,  square,  and  snubby, 

Stumpy  and  stubby  : 
Some  capable  of  ladye-billets  neat, 
Some  only  fit  for  ledger-keeping  clerk, 
And  so, iir  to  grub  down  Peter  Sml.bs  his  mark, 
Or  smudge  through  some  illegible  receipt; 
Others  in  florid  caligraphic  plans, 
Ecpial  to  ships,  and  wiggy  heads,  and  swans! 

To  try  in  any  common  inkstands,  then, 
"With  all  their  miscellaneous  stocks, 

To  find  a  decent  pen, 
"Was  like  a  dip  into  a  lucky  box  : 

\     i  drew,  —  and  got  one  very  curly, 
A. id  splil  like  endive  in  some  hurly-burly ; 
The  next  unslit,  and  square  at  i       .  a  -pule; 
Th  ■  third,  incipient  pop-gun,  not   yet  made; 
The  fourth  a  broom  :  the  iit'tii  of  no  avail, 
Turned  upwards,  like  a  rabbit's  tail ; 
And  list,  not  least,  by  way  of  a  n 
A  stump  that  Master  Richard,  James  or  John, 


343  ODE    T0    PERKY. 

Had  tried  his  candle-cookery  upon, 
Making  "  roast-beef! " 

Not  so  thy  Perryan  Tens ! 
True  to  their  M's  and  N's, 
They  do  not  with  a  whizzing-  zig-zag  split, 
Straddle,  turn  up  their  noses,  sulk,  and  spit, 
Or  drop  large  dots, 
Huge  full-stop  blots, 
Where  even  semicolons  were  unfit. 
They  will  not  frizzle  up,  or,  broom-like,  drudge 

In  sable  sludge  — 
Nay,  bought  at  proper  "  Patent  Perryan  "  shops, 
They  write  good  grammar,  sense,  and  mind  their  stops: 
Compose  both  prose  and  verse,  the  sad  and  merry  — 
For  when  the  editor,  whose  pains  compile 
The  grown-up  Annual,  or  the  Juvenile, 
Vaunteth  his  articles,  not  women's,  men's, 
But  lays  "  by  the  most  celebrated  Pens," 
What  means  he  but  thy  Patent  Pens,  my  Perry  ? 

Pleasant  they  are  to  feel ! 
So  firm  !  so  flexible !  composed  of  steel 
So  finely  tempered  —  fit  for  tenderest  Miss 

To  give  her  passion  breath, 
Or  kings  to  sign  the  warrant  stem  of  death  — 
But  their  supremest  merit  still  is  this, 

Write  with  them  all  your  days, 
Tragedy,  Comedy,  all  kinds  of  plays  — 
(No  dramatist  should  ever  be  without  'em)  — 

And,  just  conceive  the  bliss,  — 
There  is  so  little  of  the  goose  about  'em, 

One's  safe  from  any  hiss ! 


ODE    TO    PERKY.  349 

Ah !  who  can  paint  that  first  great  awful  night, 

Big  with  a  blessing  or  a  blight, 
"When  the  poor  dramatist,  all  funic  and  fret, 
Fuss,  fidget,  fancy,  fever,  funking,  fright, 
Ferment,  fault-fearing,  faintness  —  more  f's  yet: 
Flushed,  frigid,  flurried,  flinching,  fitful,  flat, 
Add  famished,  fuddled,  and  fatigued,  to  that; 
Funeral,  fate-foreboding  —  sits  in  doubt, 
Or  rather  doubt  with  hope,  a  wretched  marriage, 
To  see  his  play  upon  the  stage  come  out ; 
No  stage  to  him  !  it  is  Thalia's  carriage, 
And  he  is  sitting  on  the  spikes  behind  it, 
Striving  to  look  as  if  he  didn't  mind  it ! 

Witness  how  1  lea/ley  vents  upon  his  hat 
His  nervousness,  meanwhile  his  fate  is  dealt : 
He  kneads,  moulds,  pummels  it,  and  sits  it  flat, 
Squeezes  and  twists  it  up,  until  the  felt, 
That  went  a  beaver  in,  comes  out  a  rat! 
Miss  Mitford  had  mis-givings,  and  in  fright, 

Upon  Rienzi's  night 
•Gnawed  up  one  long  kid  glove,  and  all  her  bag, 

Quite  to  a  rag. 
Knowles  has  confessed  he  trembled  as  for  life, 

Afraid  of  his  own  "Wife;" 
Toole  told  me  that  lie  felt  a  monstrous  pail 
Of  water  backing  him.  all  down  his  spine, — 
"The  ice-brook's  temper"  —  pleasanl  to  the  chine.' 
For  fear  that  Simpson  and  his  Co.  should  fail. 
Did  Lord  Glengall  not  frame  a  meet  d  prayer, 
"Wishing  devoutly  lie  was  Lord  knows  where? 
Nay,  did  not  Jerrold.  in  enormous  drouth. 
While  doubtful  of  Nell  (iw\ nnc's  eventful  luck, 

Squeeze  out  and  suck 
30 


350  •     ODE    TO    PERRY. 

More  oranges  with  his  one  fevered  mouth 
Than  Nelly  had  to  hawk  from  north  to  south? 
Yea,  Buckstone,  changing  color  like  a  mullet, 
Refused,  on  an  occasion,  once,  twice,  thrice, 
From  his  best  Friend,  an  ice, 
Lest  it  should  hiss  in  his  own  red-hot  gullet. 

Doth  punning  Peake  not  sit  upon  the  points 
Of  Iris  own  jokes,  and  shake  in  all  his  joints, 

During  their  trial  ? 

Tis  past  denial. 
And  does  not  Pocock,  feeling,  like  a  peacock, 
All  eyes  upon  him,  turn  to  very  meacock  ? 
And  does  not  Planche,  tremulous  and  blank, 
Meanwhile  his  personages  tread  the  boards, 

Seem  goaded  by  sharp  swords, 
And  called  upon  himself  to  "  walk  the  plank"? 
As  for  the  Dances,  Charles  and  George  to  boot, 

"What  have  they  more 
Of  ease  and  rest,  for  sole  of  either  foot, 
Than  bear  that  capers  on  a  hotted  floor  ! 

Thus  pending  —  does  not  Mathews,  at  sad  shift. 
For  voice,  croak  like  a  frog  in  waters  fenny  ? — - 
Serle  seem  upon  the  surly  seas  adrift  ?  — 
And  Kenny  think  he's  going  to  Kilkenny  ? — ■ 
Haynes  Bayly  feel  Old  ditto,  with  the  note 
Of  Cotton  in  his  ear,  a  mortal  grapple 

About  his  arms,  and  Adam's  apple 
Big  as  a  fine  Dutch  codling  in  his  throat? 
Did  Rodwell,  on  his  chimney-piece,  desire 
Or  not  to  take  a  jump  into  the  fire  ? 
Did  Wade  feel  as  composed  as  music  can  ? 
And  was  not  Bernard  his  own  Nervous  Man  ? 
Lastly,  don't  Farley,  a  bewildered  elf, 


ODE    TO    PEKIiY.  351 

Quake  at  the  Pantomime  he  loves  to  cater, 
And  ere  its  changes  ring:  transform  himself? — ■ 

A  frightful  mug  of  human  delf ! 
A  spirit-bottle  —  empty  of  "  the  cratur  "  ? 

A  leaden-platter  ready  for  the  shelf? 

A  thunderstruck  dumb-waiter  ? 

To  clench  the  fact, 
Myself,  once  guilty  of  one  small  rash  act, 
Committed  at  the  Surrey, 
Quite  in  a  hurry, 
Felt  all  this  flurry, 
Corporal  worry, 
And  spiritual  scurry. 
Dram-devil  --attic  curry! 
All  going  well, 
From  prompter's  bell, 
Until  befell 
A  hissing  at  some  dull  imperfect  dance  — 

There's  no  denying 
I  felt  in  all  four  elements  at  once  ! 
My  head  was  swimming,  while  my  arms  were  flying: 
My  legs  for  running  —  all  the  rest,  was  frying  ! 

Thrice  welcome,  then,  for  this  peculiar  use, 

Thy  pens  so  innocent  of  goose  ! 
For  this  shall  dramatists,  when  they  make  merry, 
Discarding  port  and  sherry, 
Drink  — "Perry!" 
Perry,  whose  fame,  pennated,  is  let  loose 

To  distant  lands. 
Perry,  admitted  on  all  hands, 
Text,  running,  ( "  rman,  Roman, 
For  Patent  Perryans  approached  by  no  man.' 
And  when,  ah  me  !   far  distant  be  the  hour! 


3,"j2  number  one. 

Pluto  shall  call  thee  to  his  gloomy  bower, 
Many  shall  be  thy  pensive  mourners,  many  ! 
And  Penury  itself  shall  club  its  penny 
To  raise  thy  monument  in  lofty  place, 
Higher  than  York's  or  any  son  of  War; 
Whilst  time  all  meaner  effigies  shall  bury, 

On  due  pentagonal  base 
Shall  stand  the  Parian,  Perryan,  periwigged  Perry, 
Perched  on  the  proudest  peak  of  Penman  Mawr ! 


NUMBER  ONE. 

VERSIFIED    FROM    THE    PROSE    OF    A    YOUNG    LADY. 

It's  very  hard  !  — and  so  it  is,  to  live  in  such  a  row,  — 
And  witness  this  that  ever}'  miss  but  me  has  got  a  beau. 
For  Love  goes  calling  up  and  down,  but  here  he  seems 

to  shun  ; 
fin  sure  he  has  been  asked  enough  to  call  at  Number  ^ 

One! 

Pm  sick  of  all  the  double  knocks  that  come  to  Number 

Four ! — 
That  Number  Three  I  often  see  a  lover  at  the  door  ;  — 
And  one  in  blue,  at  Number  Two,  calls  daily  like  a  dun, — 
It's  very  hard  they  come  so  near,  and  not  to  Number 

One ! 

Miss  Dell,  I  hear,  has  got  a  dear  exactly  to  her  mind, — 
By  sitting  at  the  window-pane  without  a  bit  of  blind: — ■ 
lint  I  go  in  the  balcony,  which  she  has  never  done, 
Vet  arts  that  thrive  at  Number  Five  don't  take  at  Num- 
ber One  ! 


NUMBER    ONE.  o~>.) 

Tis  hard,  with  plenty  in  the  street,  and  plenty  passing 

by  — 

There's  nice  young  men  at  Number  Ten,  but  only  rather 

shy ;  — 
And  Mrs.  Smith  across  the  way  has  got  a  grown-up  son, 
But,  la  !   he  hardly  seems  to  know  there  is  a  Number 

One  ! 

There's  Mr.  Wick  at  Number  Nine,  but  he's  intent  on 
pelf, 

And  though  he's  pious  will  not  love  his  neighbor  as  him- 
self. — 

At  Number  Seven  there  was  a  sale — the  goods  had 
quite  a  run! 

And  here  I've  got  my  single  lot  on  hand  at  Number  One ! 

My  mother  often  sits  at  work  and  talks  of  props  and 

stays, 
And  what  a  comfort  I  shall  be  in  her  declining  days  :  — 
The  very  maids  about  the  house  have  set  me  down  a  nun, 
The  sweethearts  all  belong  to  them  that  call  at  Number 

One! 

Once  only  when  the  flue  took  (ire,  one  Friday  afternoon, 
Young   Mr.    Long  came  kindly  in   and   told  me  no!   to 

swoon  : 
Win  can'l   he  come  again  without  the  Phoenix  and  the 

Sun  :J 
We  cannot  always  have  a  flue  on  fire  at  Number  One! 

I  am  not  old,  1  am  nut  plain,  nor  awkward  in  my  gait  — 
I  am  not  crooked;  like  the  bride  that  went  from  Number 

Eight  :  — 
I'm  sure  whit.'  satin  made  her  look  as  brown  as  any  bun  — 
Bui  even  lc.iiit\  Ins  no  chance.  I  think,  at  Number  One! 
30  ' 


0,")4  LINES    ON    THE    CELEBRATION    OF    TE.VCE. 

At  Number  Six  they  say  Miss  Rose  has  slain  a  score  or 

hearts, 
And  Cupid,  for  her  sake,  has  been  quite  prodigal  of  darts. 
The  imp  they  show  with  bended  bow,  I  wish  he  had  a 

gun  ! 
But  if  lie  had,  he'd  never  deign  to  shoot  with  Number 

One. 

It's  very  hard,  and  so  it  is,  to  live  in  such  a  row ! 

And  here's  a  ballad-singer  come  to  aggravate  my  woo  ;  — 

O,  take  away  your  foolish  song  and  tones  enough  to 
stun  — 

There  is  "  Nae  luck  about  the  house,"  I  know,  at  Num- 
ber One ! 


LINES   ON   THE   CELEBRATION   OF   PEACE. 

BY    DORCAS    DOVE. 

And  is  it  thus  ye  welcome  Peace, 

From  mouths  of  forty-pounding  Bores  ? 

O,  cease,  exploding  Cannons,  cease! 

Lest  Peace,  affrighted,  shun  our  shores  ! 

Not  so  the  quiet  Queen  should  come ; 

But  like  a  Nurse  to  still  our  Fears, 
With  shoes  of  List,  demurely  dumb, 

And  Wool  or  Cotton  in  her  Ears ! 

She  asks  for  no  triumphal  Arch  ; 

No  Steeples  for  their  ropy  Tongues; 
Down,  Drumsticks,  down  !     She  needs  no  March, 

Or  blasted  Trumps  from  brazen  Lungs. 

She  wants  no  Noise  of  mobbing  Throats 
To  tell  that  She  is  drawing  nigh  : 


THE    DEMON-SHIP.  355 

Why  this  Parade  of  scarlet  Coats, 

When  War  has  closed  his  bloodshot  Eye  ? 

Returning  to  Domestic  Loves, 

When  War  has  ceased  with  all  its  Ills, 

Captains  should  come  like  sucking  Doves, 
With  Olive  Branches  in  their  Bills. 

No  need  there  is  of  vulgar  Shout, 

Bells,  Cannons,  Trumpets,  Fife  and 'Drum, 

And  Soldiers  marching  all  about, 
To  let  Us  know  that  Peace  is  come. 

O,  mild  should  be  the  Signs,  and  meek, 

Sweet  Peace's  Advent  to  proclaim  ! 
Silence  her  noiseless  Foot  should  speak, 

And  Echo  should  repeat  the  same. 

Lo!  where  the  Soldier  walks,  alas! 

With  Scars  received  on  foreign  Grounds; 
Shall  we  consume  in  colored  Glass 

The  Oil  that  should  be  poured  in  Wounds? 

The  bleeding  Gaps  of  War  to  close. 

Will  whizzing  Rocket-Flight  avail  ? 
Will  Squibs  enliven  Orphans'  Woes  ? 

Or  Crackers  direr  the  Widow's  Tale? 


THE    DEMON-SHIP. 

'Tv..\s  olf  the  Wash  —  the  sun  went  down — the  sea 

.'  il  black  and  grim, 
Foi  stormy  clouds  with  murky  ileece  were  mustering  at 

the  brim  ; 
Titanic  shades!  enormous  gloom!  —  as  if  the  solid  night 
Of  Erebus  rose  suddenly  to  seize  upon  the  light! 


3t)6  THE    DKMO.\-SlIU\ 

It  was  a  time  for  mariners  to  bear  a  wary  eye, 

With  such  a  dark  conspiracy  between  the  sea  and  sky! 

Down  went  my   helm  — close  reefed  —  the   tack  held 

freely  in  my  hand  — 
With  ballast  snug  —  I  put  about,  and  scudded  for  the 

land. 

Loud  hissed  the  sea  beneath  her  lee ;  my  little  boat  flew 

fast, 

But  faster  still  the  rushing  storm  came  borne  upon  tha 

blast. 
Lord!  what  a  roaring  hurricane  beset  the  straining  sail! 
What  furious  sleet,  with  level  drift,  and  tierce  assaults 

of  hail ! 
What  darksome  caverns  yawned  before !   what  jagged 

steeps  behind ! 

Like  battle-steeds,  with  foamy  manes,  wild  tossing  in  the 
wind. 

Each  after  each  sank  down  astern,  exhausted  in  the  chase, 
Lut  where  it  sank  another  rose  and  galloped  in  its  place  ': 
As  black  as  night— they  turned  to  white,  and  cast  against 
the  cloud 

A   snowy    sheet,   as   if  each   surge   upturned   a    sailor's 
shroud  : 

Still   flew  my  boat  ;  alas  !  alas  !  her  course  was  nearly 
run  ! 

Behold  yon  fatal  billow  rise  — ten  billows  heaped  in  one! 
With  fearful  speed  the  dreary  mass  came  rolling,  rolline 

fast, 
As  if  the  scooping  sea  contained  only  one  wave,  at  last! 
Still  on  it  came,  with  horrid  roar,  a  swift-pursuin^ <»rave • 
It  seemed  as  though  some  cloud  had  turned  its  hugeness 

to  a  wave ! 
Its  briny  sleet  began  to  beat  beforehand  in  my  face  — 
I  tell  the  rearward  keel  begin  to  climb  its  swelling  base! 


• 


THE    DEMON-SHIP.  357 

I  saw  its  Alpine  hoary  head  impending  over  mine  1 
Another  pulse,  and   down  it  rushed,  an  avalanche  of 

brine  ! 
Brief  pause  had  I,  on  God  to  cry,  or  think  of  wife  and 

home ; 
The  waters  closed  —  and  when  I  shrieked,  I  shrieked  be- 
low the  foam  ! 
Beyond  that  rush  I  have  no  hint  of  any  after  deed  — 
For  I  was  tossing  on  the  waste,  as  senseless  as  a  weed. 

"  Where  am  I  ?  in  the  breathing  world,  or  in  the  work? 

of  death  ?  " 
With  slurp  and  sudden  pang  I  drew  another  birth  of 

breath  ; 
My  eyes  drank  in  a  doubtful  light,  my  ears  a  doubtful 

sound, 
And  was   that   ship  a   real  ship  whose  tackle  seemed 

around  ? 

A  moon,  as  if  the  earthly  moon,  was  shining  up  aloft  ; 
But  were  those  beams   the  very  beams  that    I  had  seen 

so  oft  ? 
A  face  that  mocked  the  human  face  before  me  watched 

alone  ; 
But  were  those  eyes  the  eyes  of  man  that  looked  against 

my  own  ? 

O!  never  may  the  moon  again  disclose  me  such  a  sight 

As  met  m\  gaze,  when  first  1  looked  on  that  accursed 
nighl  ! 

Pvc  seen  a  thousand  horrid  shapes  begot  of  fierce  ex- 
tremes 

Of  p€ver  ;  and  most  frightful  t'mrgs  have  ,''•(,  \tei'  in  my 
-'reae's-  - 


358  THE   DEMON-SHIP. 

Hyenas,  cats,  blood-loving  bats,  and  apes  with  hateful 
stare, 

Pernicious  snakes,  and  shaggy  bulk,  the  lion  and  she- 
bear, 

Strong  enemies,  with  Judas  looks,  of  treachery  and 
spite  — 

Detested  features,  hardly  dimmed  and  banished  by  the 
light ! 

Pale-sheeted  ghosts,  with  gory  locks,  upstarting  from  their 

tombs  — 
All  fantasies  and  images  that  flit  in  midnight  glooms  — 
Hags,   goblins,   demons,   lemures,    have   made   me   all 

aghast,  — 
But  nothing  like  that  Grimly  Oxe  who  stood  beside  the 

mast ! 

His  cheek  was  black  —  his  brow  was  black  —  his  eyes 
and  hair  as  dark  : 

His  hand  was  black,  and  where  it  touched  it  left  a  sable 
mark  ; 

His  throat  was  black,  his  vest  the  same ;  and  when  I 
looked  beneath, 

His  breast  was  black  —  all,  all  was  black,  except  his  grin- 
ning teeth. 

His  sooty  crew  were  like  in  line,  as  black  as  Afric  slaves! 

O,  horror!  e'en  the  ship  was  black  that  ploughed  the 
inky  waves ! 

"  Alas!  "  I  cried,  "for  love  of  truth  and  blessed  mercy's 
sake. 

Where  am  I  ?  in  what  dreadful  ship  ?  upon  what  dread- 
ful lake  ? 

What  shape  is  that,  so  very  grim,  and  black  as  any  coal  ? 

It  is  Mahound,  the  Evil  One,  and  he  has  gained  my  soul  J 


SPUING.  359 

O,  mother  dear !  my  tender  nurse !  dear  meadows  that 

beguiled 
My  happy  days,  when  I  was  yet  a  little  sinless  child,  — 
My  mother  dear — my  native  holds,  I  never  more  shall  see: 
I'm  sailing  in  the  Devil's  Ship,  upon  the  Devil's  Sea!" 

Loud  laughed  that  Sable  Mariner,  and  loudly  in  return 
His  sooty  crew  sent  forth  a  laugh  that  rang  from  stem 

to  stern  — 
A  dozen  pair  of  grimly  cheeks  were  crumpled  on-  the 

nonce  — 
As  many  sets  of  grinning  teeth  came  shining  out  at  once  ; 
A  dozen  gloomy  shapes  at  once  enjoyed  the  merry  fit, 
With  shriek  and  yell,  and  oaths  as  well,  like  demons  of 

the  Pit. 
They  crowed  their  fill,  and  then  the  Chief  made  answer 

for  the  whole ;  — 
"  Our  skins,''  said  he,  "  arc  black,  ye   sec,  because  we 

carry  coal ; 
You'll  find  your  mother  sure  enough,  and  see  your  native 

fields  — 
For  this  here  ship  has  picked  you  up,  the  Mary  Ann  of 

Shields ! " 


SPRING. 


A   Ni:w    VERSION. 


■■  Ham.  The  air  bites  shrewdly  —  it  is  very  cold. 
II  r.  It  is  a  nipping  and  >  tir.        Hamlet. 

"Come,  gentle  Spring!  ethereal  mildness,  come!" 
O!  Thomson,  void  of  rhyme  as  well  as  reason, 

J  low  couldst  thou  thus  poor  human  nature  hum? 
There's  no  such  season. 


3  GO  SPRING. 

The  Spring  !  I  shrink  and  shudder  at  her  name ! 

For  why,  I  find  her  breath  a  bitter  blighter ! 
And  suffer  from  her  blows  as  if  they  came 

From  Spring  the  Fighter. 

Her  praises,  then,  let  hardy  poets  sing, 

And  be  her  tuneful  laureates  and  upholders, 

Who  do  not  feel  as  if  they  had  a  Spring 
Poured  down  their  shoulders. 

• 

Let  others  eulogize  her  floral  shows  ; 

From  me  they  cannot  win  a  single  stanza. 
I  know  her  blooms  are  in  full  blow  —  and  so's 

The  Influenza. 

Her  cowslips,  stocks,  and  lilies  of  the  vale, 
Her  honey-blossoms  that  you  hear  the  bees  at, 

Her  pansies,  daffodils,  and  primrose  pale, 
Are  things  I  sneeze  at ! 


*e>^ 


Fair  is  the  vernal  quarter  of  the  year ! 

And  fair  its  early  buddings  and  its  blowingr 
But  just  suppose  Consumption's  seeds  appear 

"With  other  sowings  ! 


■e 


For  me,  I  find,  when  eastern  winds  are  high, 
A  frigid,  not  a  genial  inspiration  ; 

Nor  can,  like  Iron-Chested  Chubb,  defy 
An  inflammation. 

Smitten  by  breezes  from  the  land  of  plague, 
To  me  all  vernal  luxuries  are  fables ; 

O !  where's  the  Spring  in  a  rheumatic  leg, 
Stiff  as  a  table's  '.' 


FAITHLESS    NELLY    GRAY.  3gJ 

I  limp  in  agony,  —  I  wheeze  and  cough, 
And  quake  with  Ague,  that  great  Agitator; 

Nor  dream,  before  July,  of  leaving  off 
My  Respirator. 

What  wonder  if  in  May  itself  I  lack 

A  peg  for  laudatory  verse  to  hang  on  ?  — 

Spring  mild  and  gentle  !  —  yes,  a  Spring-heeled  Jack 
To  those  he  sprang  on. 

In  short,  whatever  panegyrics  lie 

In  fulsome  odes  too  many  to  be  cited, 
The  tenderness  of  Spring  is  all  my  eye, 

And  tint  is  blighted  ! 


FAITHLESS   NELLY   GRAY. 

A    PATHETIC    BALLAD. 

BEN  BATTLE  Mas  a  soldier  bold, 

And  used  to  war's  alarms  ; 
lint  a  cannon-ball  took  off  his  legs, 

So  he  laid  down  his  arms  ! 

Now.  as  they  bore  him  off  the  field, 
Said  be,  "Let  others  shoot. 

For  here  I  leave  m\  second  lee. 
And  the  Forty-second  Fool !  " 

The  army-surgeons  made  him  limbs: 
Said  he,  "  They're  only  pegs  : 

But.  there's  as  wooden  members  quite 
As  represent  my  legs  ! '' 
31 


3G2  FAITHLESS    NELLY    GHAT. 

Now,  Ben  he  loved  a  pretty  maid, 

Her  name  was  Nelly  Gray  ; 
So  he  went  to  pay  her  his  devours, 

When  he  devoured  his  pay  ! 

But  when  he  called  on  Nelly  Gray, 
She  made  him  quite  a  scoff; 

And  when  she  saw  his  wooden  legs, 
Began  to  take  them  off! 

"  O,  Nelly  Gray !  O,  Nelly  Gray ! 

Is  this  your  love  so  warm  ? 
The  love  that  loves  a  scarlet  coat 

Should  be  more  uniform  !  " 

Said  she,  "  I  loved  a  soldier  once, 
For  he  was  blithe  and  brave ; 

But  I  will  never  have  a  man 
With  both  legs  in  the  grave ! 

"  Before  you  had  those  timber  toes, 

Your  love  1  did  allow, 
But  then,  you  know,  you  stand  upon 

Another  footing  now  !  '' 

"O,  Nelly  Gray!  O,  Nelly  Gray! 

For  all  your  jeering  speeches, 
At  duty's  call  I  left  my  legs 

In  Badajos's  breaches!" 

"Why  then,"  said  she,  "you've  lost  the  feet 

Of  lcijs  in  war's  alarms, 
And  now  you  cannot  wear  your  shoes 

Upon  your  feats  of  arms  !  " 


FAITHLESS    NELLY    GRAY.  36-3 

"  O,  false  and  fickle  Nelly  Gray  ! 

I  know  why  you  refuse  :  — 
Though  I've  no  feet  —  some  other  man 

Is  standing  in  my  shoes  ! 

"  I  wish  I  ne'er  had  seen  your  face ; 

But,  now,  a  long  farewell ! 
For  you  will  be  my  death  ;  — alas, 

You  will  not  be  my  Nell  !  " 

Now,  when  he  went  from  Nelly  Gray, 

His  heart  so  heavy  got, 
And  life  was  such  a  burthen  grown, 

It  made  him  take  a  knot ! 

So  round  his  melancholy  neck 

A  rope  he  did  entwine, 
And,  for  hi-  second  time  in  life, 

Enlisted  in  the  Line  ! 

One  end  he  tied  around  a  beam, 

And  then  removed  his  pegs, 
And,  as  his  leys  were  off —  of  course 

He  soon  was  off  his  legs  ! 

And  there  he  hung,  till  he  was  dead 

As  any  nail  in  town, — 
For,  though  distress  had  cut  him  up, 

It  could  not  cut  him  down  ! 

A  dozen  men  sat  on  his  corpse, 

To  find  out  why  he  died  — 
And  they  buried  lien  in  lour  cross-roads, 

W'uii  a  stake  in  his  inside! 


3G4  TIIE    FLOWER. —  THE    SEA-SPELL. 


THE  FLOWER. 

Alone,  across  a  foreign  plain, 

The  exile  slowly  wanders, 
And  on  his  isle  beyond  the  main 

With  saddened  spirit  ponders ; 

This  lovely  isle  beyond  the  sea, 
With  all  its  household  treasures  ; 

Its  cottage  homes,  its  merry  birds, 
And  all  its  rural  pleasures  ; 

Its  leafy  woods,  its  shady  vales, 
Its  moors,  and  purple  heather  ; 

Its  verdant  fields  bedecked  with  stars 
His  childhood  loved  to  gather ; 

When,  lo  !  he  starts  with  glad  surprise, 
Home-joys  come  rushing  o'er  him, 

For  "  modest,  wee,  and  crimson-tipped," 
He  spies  the  flower  before  him! 

With  eager  haste  he  stoops  him  down, 
His  eyes  with  moisture  hazy, 

And  as  he  plucks  the  simple  bloom, 
He  murmurs,  "  Lawk-a-daisy  !  " 


THE   SEA-SPELL. 

'  Oaidd,  cauld,  he  lies  beneath  the  deep."  —  Old  Scotch  Ballad. 

It  was  a  jolly  mariner  ! 
The  tallest  man  of  three, — 
He  loosed  his  sail  against  the  wind, 
And  turned  his  boat  to  sea : 


THE    SEA-SPELL.  365 

The  ink-black  sky  told  every  eye 
A  storm  was  soon  to  be  ! 

But  still  that  jolly  mariner 

Took  in  no  reef  at  all, 

For,  in  his  pouch,  confidingly, 

He  wore  a  baby's  caul ; 

A  thing,  as  gossip-nurses  know, 

That  always  brings  a  squall ! 

1  lis  hat  was  new,  or,  newly  glazed, 
Shone  brightly  in  the  sun ; 
His  jacket,  like  a  mariner's, 
True  blue  as  e'er  was  spun  ; 
His  ample  trousers,  like  St.  Paul, 
Bore  forty  stripes  save  one. 

And  now  the  fretting,  foaming  tide 

lie  steered  away  to  cross; 

The  bounding  pinnace  played  a  game 

Of  dreary  pitch  and  toss  ; 

A  game  that,  on  the  good  dry  land, 

Is  apt  to  bring  a  loss  ! 

Good  Heaven  befriend  that  little  boat, 

Anil  guide  her  on  her  way  ! 

A  boat,  they  say.  lias  canvas  wings, 

But  cannot  fly  away  ! 

Though,  like  a  merry  singing-bird, 

She  sits  upon  the  spray! 

Still  south  by  easl  the  little  boat, 

With  tawny  sail,  kept  beating  : 

Now  out  of  si^bt.  between  two  waves, 

Now  o'er  the  horizon  fleeting; 

;i  * 


366  THE    SEA-SPELL. 

Like  greedy  swine  that  feed  on  mast, — 
The  waves  her  mast  seemed  eating  I 

The  sullen  sky  grew  hlack  ahove, 

The  wave  as  black  beneath; 

Each  roaring  billow  showed  full  soon 

A  white  and  foamy  wreath  ; 

Like  angry  dogs  that  snarl  at  first, 

And  then  display  their  teeth. 

The  boatman  looked  against  the  wind, 

The  mast  began  to  creak, 

The  wave,  per  saltum,  came  and  dried, 

In  salt,  upon  his  cheek  ! 

The  pointed  wave  against  him  reared, 

As  if  it  owned  a  pique  ! 

Nor  rushing  wind  nor  gushing  wave 

The  boatman  could  alarm, 

But  still  he  stood  away  to  sea, 

And  trusted  in  his  charm  ; 

lie  thought  by  purchase  he  was  safe, 

And  armed  against  all  harm  ! 

Now  thick  and  fast  and  far  aslant 
The  stormy  rain  came  pouring, 
He  heard,  upon  the  sandy  bank, 
The  distant  breakers  roaring, — 
A  groaning  intermitting  sound, 
Like  Gog  and  Magog  snoring  ! 

The  sea-fowl  shrieked  around  the  mast, 

Ahead  the  grampus  tumbled. 

And  far  off,  from  a  copper  cloud, 

The  hollow  thunder  rumbled  ; 

It  would  have  quailed  another  heart, 

But  his  was  never  humbled. 


THE    SEA-SPELL.  3Q7 

For  why  ?  he  had  that  infant's  caul ; 
And  wherefore  should  he  dread  ? 
Alas  !  alas !  he  little  thought, 
Before  the  ebb-tide  sped, — - 
That,  like  that  infant,  he  should  die, 
And  with  a  watery  head ! 

The  rushing  brine  flowed  in  apace ; 

His  boat  had  ne'er  a  deck  : 

Fate  seemed  to  call  him  on,  and  he 

Attended  to  her  beck  ; 

And  so  he  went,  still  trusting  on, 

Though  reckless  —  to  his  wreck ! 

For  as  he  left  his  helm,  to  heave 

The  ballast-bags  a-weather, 

Three  monstrous  seas  came  roaring  on, 

Like  lions  leagued  together. 

The  two  first  waves  the  little  boat 

Swam  over  like  a  feather, — 

The  two  first  waves  were  past  and  gone, 

And  sinking  in  her  wake  ; 

The  hugest  still  came  leaping  on, 

And  hissing  like  a  snake. 

Now  helm  a-lee  I  for  through  the  midst 

The  monster  he  must  take  ! 

Ah,  me  !  ii  was  a  dreary  mount ! 

Its  base  as  black  as  night, 

In  top  of  pale  ami  livid  green, 

Ik  eresl  of  awful  white, 

Like  Neptune  with  a  leprosy,— 

And  so  it  reared  upright ! 


3C8  THE    SEA-SPELL. 

With  quaking  sails  the  little  boat 
Climbed  up  the  foaming  heap, 
With  quaking  sails  it  paused  a  while, 
At  balance  on  the  steep  ; 
Then,  rushing  down  the  nether  slope, 
Plunged  with  a  dizzy  sweep ! 

Look,  how  a  horse,  made  mad  with  fear, 

Disdains  his  careful  guide  ; 

So  now  the  headlong,  headstrong  boat, 

Unmanaged,  turns  aside, 

And  straight  presents  her  reeling  flank 

Against  the  swelling  tide  ! 

The  gusty  wind  assaults  the  sail ; 
Her  ballast  lies  a-lee  ! 
The  sheet's  to  windward  taut  and  stiff, 
O  !  the  Lively  —  where  is  she  ? 
Her  capsized  keel  is  in  the  foam, 
Her  pennon's  in  the  sea  ! 

The  wild  gull,  sailing  overhead, 
Three  times  beheld  emerge 
The  head  of  that  bold  mariner, 
And  then  she  screamed  his  dirge! 
For  he  had  sunk  within  his  grave, 
Lapped  in  a  shroud  of  surge  ! 

The  ensuing  wave,  with  horrid  foam, 
Rushed  o'er  and  covered  all ; 
The  jolly  boatman's  drowning  scream 
"Was  smothered  by  the  squall, 
Heaven  never  heard  his  cry,  nor  did 
The  ocean  heed  his  caul. 


a  sailor's  apology  fok  bow-legs.  3 GO 

A   SAILOR'S  APOLOGY   FOR  BOW-LEGS. 

THERE'S  sorao  is  born  with  their  straight  legs  by  natur, 
And  some  is  born  with  how-legs  from  the  first  — 
And    some   that   should    have    growed    a    good    deal 
straighter, 

But  they  were  badly  nursed, 
And  set,  you  see,  like  Bacchus,  with  their  pegs 

Astride  of  casks  and  kegs  : 
I've  got  myself  a  sort  of  bow  to  larboard, 

And  starboard, 
And  this  is  what  it  was  that  warped  my  legs.  — 

Twas  all  along  of  Poll,  as  I  may  say, 
That  fouled  my  cable  when  T  ought  to  slip  ; 
But  on  the  tenth  of  May, 
When  I  gets  under  weigh, 
Down  there  in  Hartfordshire,  to  join  my  ship, 

I  sees  the  mail 

Get  under  sail, 
The  only  one  there  was  to  make  the  trip. 

Well  —  I  gives  chase, 

But  as  she  run 

Two  knots  to  one, 
There  warn't  no  use  in  keeping  on  the  race  ! 

Well  —  easting  round  about,  what  next  to  try  on, 

And  how  to  spin, 
I  spies  an  ensign  with  a  Bloody  Lion. 
And  bears  away  to  leeward  for  the  inn. 

Beats  round  the  gable. 
And  fetches  up  before  the  coach-horse  stable: 
Well  —  there  they  stand,  four  kickers  in  a  row, 

Am!  BO 
I  just  makes  free  to  cut  a  brown  'un's  cable. 
But  riding  isn't  in  a  seaman's  natur  — 


370  a  sailor's  apology  for  bow-legs. 

So  I  whips  out  a  toughish  end  of  yarn, 
And  gets  a  kind  of  sort  of  a  land-waiter 

To  splice  me,  heel  to  heel, 

Under  the  she-mare's  keel, 
And  off  I  goes,  and  leaves  the  inn  a-starn  ! 

My  eyes  !  how  she  did  pitch  ! 
And  wouldn't  keep  her  own  to  go  in  no  line, 
Though  I  kept  bowsing,  bowsing  at  her  bowline, 
But  always  making  lee-way  to  the  ditch, 
And  yawed  her  head  about  all  sorts  of  ways. 

The  devil  sink  the  craft ! 
And  wasn't  she  trimendous  slack  in  stays ! 
We  couldn't,  nohow,  keep  the  inn  abaft ! 

Well  —  I  suppose 
We  hadn't  run  a  knot  —  or  much  beyond  — 
(What  will  you  have  on  it  ?)  — but  off  she  goes, 
Up  to  her  bends  in  a  fresh-water  pond  ! 

There  I  am  !  —  all  a-back  ! 
So  I  looks  forward  for  her  bridle-gears, 
To  heave  her  head  round  on  the  t'other  tack ; 

But  when  I  starts, 

The  leather  parts. 
And  goes  away  right  over  by  the  ears  ! 

What  could  a  fellow  do, 
Whose  legs,  like  mine,  you  know,  were  in  the  bilboes, 
But  trim  myself  upright  for  bringing-to, 
And  square  his  yard-arms,  and  brace  up  his  elbows, 

In  rig  all  snu<r  mid  clever. 
Just  while  his  craft  was  taking  in  her  water  ? 
I  didn't  like  my  berth,  though,  howsomdever, 
Because  the  yarn,  you  see,  kepi  getting  tauter, — 
Says  I  —  I  wish  this  job  was  rather  shorter  ! 

The  chase  had  gained  a  mile 
Ahead,  and  still  the  she-mare  stood  a-drinking : 


THE    BACHELOR'S    DREAM.  371 

Now,  all  the  while 
Her  body  didn't  take  of  course  to  shrinking. 
Says  I,  she's  letting  out  her  reef's,  I'm  thinking  — 

And  so  she  swelled,  and  swelled, 

And  yet  the  tackle  held, 
Till  both  my  legs  began  to  bend  like  winkin. 

My  eyes  !  but  she  took  in  enough  to  founder ! 
And  there's  my  timbers  straining  every  bit, 

Ready  to  split, 
And  her  tarnation  hull  a-growing  rounder ! 

Well,  there  —  off  Hartford  Ness, 
We  lay  both  lashed  and  water-logged  together, 

And  can't  contrive  a  signal  of  distress  ; 
Thinks  I,  we  must  ride  out  this  here  foul  weather, 
Though  sick  of  riding  out  —  and  nothing  less  ; 
When,  looking  round,  I  sees  a  man  a-starn  :  — 
Hollo!  says  I,  come  underneath  her  quarter!  — 
And  hands  him  out  my  knife  to  cut  the  yarn. 
So  I  gets  off,  and  lands  upon  the  road, 
And  leaves  the  she-mare  to  her  own  consarn, 

A-standing  by  the  water. 
If  I  get  on  another,  I'll  he  lilowed!  — 
And  that's  the  way,  you  see,  my  legs  got  bowed! 


THE  BACHELOR'S    DREAM. 

My  pipe  is  lit,  my  grog  is  mixed, 

My  curtains  drawn  and  all  is  snug; 

Old  Puss  is  in  her  elbow-chair, 

And  Tray  is  sitting  on  the  ruar. 

Last  night  I  had  a  curious  dream, 

Miss  Susan  Bates  was  Mistress  Mogg 


372  THE    BACHELOR'S    1)111  A.M. 

What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  cat? 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

She  looked  so  fa  .->,  she  sang  so  well, 
I  could  but  woo  and  she  was  won  ; 
Myself  in  blue,  the  bride  in  white, 
The  ring  was  placed,  the  deed  was  done! 
Away  we  went  in  chaise-and-four, 
As  fast,  as  grinning  boys  could  flog  — 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

What  loving  tete-a-tetes  to  come  ! 
But  tete-a-teles  must  still  defer ! 
When  Susan  came  to  live  with  me, 
Her  mother  came  to  live  with  her ! 
AVith  sister  Belle  she  couldn't  part, 
But  all  my  ties  had  leave  to  jog  — 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

The  mother  brought  a  pretty  Poll  — 
A  monkey  too,  what  work  he  made  ! 
The  sister  introduced  a  beau  — 
My  Susan  brought  a  favorite  maid. 
She  had  a  tabby  of  her  own,  — 
A  snappish  mongrel  christened  Gog, — 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  cat? 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

The  monkey  bit  —  the  parrot  screamed, 
All  day  the  sister  strummed  and  sung; 
The  petted  maid  was  such  a  scold ! 
My  Susan  learned  to  use  her  tongue  ; 
Her  mother  had  such  wretched  health, 


THE    BACHELOR'S    DREAM.  373 

She  sate  and  croaked  like  any  frog  — 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

No  longer  Deary,  Duck,  and  Love, 
I  soon  came  down  to  simple  "  M  !  " 
The  Aery  servants  crossed  my  wish, 
My  Susan  let  me  down  to  them. 
The  poker  hardly  seemed  my  own, 
I  might  as  well  have  been  a  log  — 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

My  clothes  they  were  the  rpieerest  shape ! 
Such  coats  and  hats  she  never  met! 
My  ways  they  were  the  oddest  ways  ! 
My  friends  were  such  a  vulgar  set  ! 
Poor  Tomkinson  was  snubbed  and  huffed, 
She  could  not  bear  that  Mister  Bloerg — 

Do 

What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

At  times  we  had  a  spar,  and  then 
Mamma  must  mingle  in  the  song  — 
The  sister  took  a  sister's  part  — 
The  maid  declared  her  master  wrong — ■ 
The  parrot  learned  to  call  me  "  Fool !  " 
My  life  was  like  a  London  fog — 
Whal  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  i 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  dog? 

My  Susan's  taste  was  superfine, 
As  proved  by  bills  that  had  no  end; 
/  never  had  a  decent  coat  — 
/  never  had  a  coin  to  spend  ! 
She  forced  me  to  resign  my  club, 
32 


374  TTH:    WEE    MAN. 

Lay  clown  my  pipe,  retrench  my  grog- 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

Each  Sunday  night  we  gave  a  rout 
To  fops  and  flirts,  a  pretty  list ; 
And  when  I  tried  to  steal  away, 
I  found  my  study  full  of  whist! 
Then,  first  to  come,  and  last  to  go, 
There  always  was  a  Captain  Hogg  — 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

Now  was  not  that  an  awful  dream 
For  one  who  single  is  and  snujr  — 
With  Pussy  in  the  elbow-chair, 
And  Tray  reposing  on  the  rug  ?  — 
If  I  must  totter  down  the  hill, 
'Tis  safest  done  without  a  closr  — 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 


THE  WEE   MAN. 

A    ROMANCE. 

It  Mas  a  merry  company, 
And  they  were  just  afloat, 

When,  lo  !  a  man,  of  dwarfish  span, 
Came  up  and  hailed  the  boat. 

"  Good-morrow  to  ye.  jjentle  folks> 
And  will  you  let  me  in  ?  — 

A  slender  space  will  serve  my  case, 
For  I  am  small  and  thin." 


THE    WEE    MAN.  375 

They  saw  he  was  a  dwarfish  man, 

And  very  small  and  thin  ; 
Not  seven  such  would  matter  much, 

And  so  they  took  him  in. 

They  laughed  to  see  his  little  hat, 

With  such  a  narrow  brim  ; 
They  laughed  to  note  his  dapper  coat, 

With  skirts  so  scant  and  trim. 

But  barely  had  they  gone  a  mile, 

When,  gravely,  one  and  all 
At  once  began  to  think  the  man 

Was  not  so  very  small. 

His  co;it  had  got  a  broader  skirt, 

His  hat  a  broader  brim, 
His  leg  grew  stout,  and  soon  plumped  out 

A  very  proper  limb. 

Still  on  they  went,  and  as  they  went, 

More  rough  the  billows  grew,  — 
And  rose  and  fell,  a  greater  swell, 

And  he  was  swelling  too  ! 

And,  lo  !  where  room  had  been  for  seven, 

For  six  there  scarce  was  space! 
For  five!  —  for  four!  —  for  three  !  —  not  more 

Than  two  could  find  a  place  ' 

There  was  not  even  room  fur  one  ! 

They  crowded  by  degrees  — 
Ay  —  closer  yet,  till  clliows  met, 

And  knees  were  jogging  knees. 


376  death's  ramble. 

"  Good  sir,  you  must  not  sit  astern, 
The  wave  will  else  come  in  !  " 

Without  a  word  he  gravely  stirred, 
Another  seat  to  win. 

"  Good  sir,  the  boat  has  lost  her  trim, 

You  must  not  sit  a-lee  !  " 
With  smiling  face  and  courteous  grace, 

The  middle  seat  took  he. 

But  still,  by  constant  quiet  growth, 

His  back  became  so  wide, 
Each  neighbor  wight,  to  left  and  right, 

Was  thrust  against  the  side. 

Lord !  how  they  chided  with  themselves, 

That  they  had  let  him  in  ! 
To  see  him  grow  so  monstrous  now, 

That  came  so  small  and  thin. 

On  every  brow  a  dew-drop  stood, 
They  grew  so  scared  and  lint,  — 

"  I'  the  name  of  all  that's  great  and  tall, 
Who  are  ye,  sir,  and  what  ?  " 

Loud  laughed  the  Gogmagog,  a  laugh 

As  loud  as  giant's  roar  — 
"When  first  I  came,  my  proper  name 

Was  Little  —  now  I'm  Moore!" 


DEATH'S    RAMBLE. 

One  day  the  dreary  old  King  of  Death 
Inclined  for  some  sport  with  the  carnal, 

So  he  tied  a  pack  of  darts  on  his  back, 
And  quietly  stole  from  his  chamel. 


death's  ramble.  377 

His  head  was  bald  of  flesh  and  of  hair, 

His  body  was  lean  and  lank; 
His  joints  at  each  stir  made  a  crack,  and  the  cur 

Took  a  gnaw,  by  the  way,  at  his  shank. 

And  what  did  he  do  with  his  deadly  darts, 

This  goblin  of  grisly  bone  ? 
He  dabbled  and  spilled  man's  blood,  and  he  killed 

Like  a  butcher  that  kills  his  own. 


The  first  he  slaughtered  it  made  him  laugh, 

(For  the  man  was  a  coffin-maker,) 
To  think  how  the  mutes,  and  men  in  black  suits, 

Would  mourn  for  an  undertaker. 

Death  saw  two  Quakers  sitting  at  church  ; 

Quoth  he,  "  We  shall  not,  differ." 
And  lie  let  them  alone,  like  figures  of  stone, 

For  he  could  not  make  them  stiller. 

He  saw  two  duellists  going  to  fight, 

In  fear  they  could  not.  smother  ; 
And  he  shot  one  through  at  once  —  for  he  knew 

They  never  would  shoot  each  other. 

He  saw  a  watchman  fast  in  his  box, 

And  he  gave  a  snore  infernal ; 
Said  Death,  "  He  may  keep  his  breath,  for  his  sleep 

Can  never  be  more  eternal." 

Hi   nut  a  :oachman  driving  a  coach 

So  slow  that  his  fare  grew  sick  , 
Bui  he  let  him  stray  on  his  tedious  way, 
For  Death  only  Mars  on  the  quick. 

Death  saw  a  tollman  taking  a  toll, 
In  the  spirit  of  his  fraternity  ; 
32  * 


378  THE    PROGRESS    OF   ART. 

But  he  knew  that  sort  of  man  would  extort, 
Though  summoned  to  all  eternity. 

lie  found  an  author  writing  his  life, 

But  he  let  him  write  no  further  ; 
For  Death,  who  strikes  whenever  he  likes, 

Is  jealous  of  all  self-murther  ! 

Death  saw  a  patient  that  pulled  out  his  purse, 

And  a  doctor  that  took  the  sum  ; 
But  he  let  them  be  —  for  he  knew  that  the  "  fee 

Was  a  prelude  to  "  faw  "  and  "  fum." 

He  met  a  dustman  ringing  a  boll, 
And  he  gave  him  a  mortal  thrust ; 

For  himself,  by  law,  since  Adam's  flaw, 
Is  contractor  for  all  our  dust. 

He  saw  a  sailor  mixing  his  grog, 

And  he  marked  him  out  for  slaughter ; 

For  on  water  he  scarcely  had  cared  for  death, 
And  never  on  rum-and-water. 

Death  saw  two  players  playing  at  cards, 
But  the  game  wasn't  worth  a  dump, 

For  he  quickly  laid  them  flat  with  a  spade, 
To  wait  for  the  final  trump  ! 


V 


THE   PROGRESS   OF   ART. 

O  HAPPY  time  !  —  Art's  early  days  ! 

When  o'er  each  deed,  with  sweet  self-praise, 

Narcissus-like  I  hung! 
When  great  Rembrandt  but  little  seemed, 
And  such  Old  Masters  all  were  deemed 

As  nothing  to  the  young  J 


THE    PROGRESS    OF    ART.  379 

Some  scratchy  strokes  —  abrupt  and  few, 
So  easily  and  swift  I  drew, 

Sufficed  for  my  design; 
My  sketchy,  superficial  hand, 
Drew  solids  at  a  dash  —  and  spanned 

A  surface  with  a  line. 

Not  long  my  eye  was  thus  content, 
But  grew  more  critical  —  my  bent 

Essayed  a  higher  walk  ; 
I  copied  leaden  eyes  in  lead  — 
Rheumatic  hands  in  white  and  red, 

And  gouty  feet  —  in  chalk. 

Anon  my  studious  art  for  days 
Kept  making  fliers — happy  phrase, 

For  faces  such  as  mine  ! 
Accomplished  in  the  details  then, 
I  left  the  minor  parts  of  men, 

And  drew  the  form  divine. 

Old  gods  and  heroes  —  Trojan  —  Greek, 
Figures  —  long  after  the  antique, 

Great  Ajax justly  feared; 
Hectors,  of  whom  at  night  I  dreamt, 
And  Nestor,  fringed  enough  to  tempt 

Bird-nesters  to  his  heard. 

A  Bacchus,  leering  on  a  bowl, 
A  Pallas,  that  out -stared  her  owl, 

A  Vulcan  —  very  lame  ; 
A  Dian  stuck  aboul  with  stars, 
With  m\  right  hand  I  murdered  Mars  — 

(One  Williams  did  the  same.) 

Bui  tired  of  this  dry  work  at  last, 
Crayon  and  chalk  aside  I  cast, 


380  THE   PROGRESS    OP    ART. 

And  gave  my  brush  a  drink  ; 
Dipping  — "as  when  a  painter  dips 
In  gloom  of  earthquake  and  eclipse," 

That  is  —  in  Indian  ink. 

0  then,  what  black  Mont  Blancs  arose, 
Crested  with  soot,  and  not  with  snows ! 

What  clouds  of  dingy  hue  ! 
In  spite  of  what  the  hard  has  penned, 

1  fear  the  distance  did  not  "  lend 

Enchantment  to  the  view.'' 

Not  Radclyffe's  brush  did  e'er  design 
Black  forests  half  so  black  as  mine, 

Or  lakes  so  like  a  pall ; 
The  Chinese  cake  dispersed  a  ray 
Of  darkness,  like  the  light  of  Day 

And  Martin,  over  all. 

Yet  urchin  pride  sustained  me  still ; 
I  gazed  on  all  with  right  good  will, 

And  spread  the  dingy  tint ; 
"  Xo  holy  Luke  helped  me  to  paint  ; 
The  Devil,  surely  not  a  Saint, 

Had  any  finger  in't !  " 

But  colors  came  !  —  like  morning  light, 
With  gorgeous  hues  displacing  night, 

Or  Spring's  enlivened  scene  : 
At  once  the  sable  shades  withdrew  ; 
My  skies  got  very,  very  blue  ; 

My  trees,  extremely  green. 

And,  washed  by  my  cosmetic  brush, 
How  Beauty's    he<  k  began  to  blush! 
With  lock  of  auburn  stain  — 


THE    PROGRESS    OP    ART.  381 

(Not  Goldsmith's  Auburn)  —  nut-brown  hair 
That,  made  her  loveliest  of  the  fair ; 
Not  "  loveliest  of  the  plain  !  " 

Her  lips  were  of  vermilion  hue  ; 
Love  in  her  eyes,  and  Prussian  blue, 

Set  all  my  heart  in  flame  ! 
A.  young  Pygmalion,  I  adored 
-f he  maids  I  made  —  but  time  was  stored 

With  evil  —  and  it  came  ! 

Perspective  dawned  —  and  soon  I  saw 
My  houses  stand  against  its  law  ; 

And  "  keeping  "  all  unkept ! 
My  beauties  were  no  longer  things 
for  love  and  fond  imaginings  ; 

But  horrors  to  be  wept  ! 

Ah !  why  did  knowledge  ope  my  eyes  ? 
"Why  did  I  get  more  artist-wise  ? 

It  only  serves  to  hint 
What  grave  defects  and  wants  are  mine; 
That  I'm  no  Hilton  in  design  — 

In  nature  no  Dewint ! 

Thrice  happy  time  ! — Art's  early  days  ! 
When  o'er  each  deed,  with  sweet  self-praise, 

Narcissus-like  1  hung ! 
When  greal  Rembrandt  but  little  seemed, 
And  such  Old  Masters  all  were  deemed 

As  nothing  to  the  young  ! 


382  A    KAIUY    TALE. 


A  FAIRY  TALE. 


Ox  Hounslow  heath  —  and  close  beside  the  road, 
As  western  travellers  may  oft  have  seen,  — 
A  little  house  some  years  ago  there  stood, 

A  minikin  abode  ; 
And  built  like  Mr.  Birkbeck's,  all  of  wood; 
The  walls  of  white,  the  window-shutters  green  ;  — 
Four  wheels  it  had  at  North,  South,  East,  and  West 

(Though  now  at  rest,) 
On  which  it  used  to  wander  to  and  fro, 
Because  its  master  ne'er  maintained  a  rider, 
Like  those  who  trade  in  Paternoster  Row; 
But  made  his  business  travel  for  itself, 

Till  he  had  made  his  pelf, 
And  then  retired  —  if  one  may  call  it  so, 

Of  a  rpadsider. 
Perchance,  the  very  race  and  constant  riot 
Of  stages,  long  and  short,  which  thereby  ran, 
Made  him  more  relish  the  repose  and  quiet 

Of  his  now  sedentary  caravan  ; 
Perchance,  he  loved  the  ground  because  'twas  common, 
And  so  he  might,  impale  a  strip  of  soil, 

That  furnished,  by  his  toil, 
Some  dusty  greens,  for  him  and  his  old  woman  ;  — 
And  five  tall  hollyhocks,  in  dingy  flower. 
Howbeit,  the  thoroughfare  did  no  ways  spoil 
His  peace, —  unless,  in  some  unlucky  hour, 
A  stray  horse  came  and  gobbled  up  his  bower! 

But,  tired  of  always  looking  at  the  coaches, 
The  same  to  come,  —  when  they  had  seen  them  one  day! 
And,  used  to  brisker  life,  both  man  and  wife 


A    FAIRY    TAI.E.  383 

Began  to  suffer  N  U  E's  approaches, 
And  feel  retirement  like  a  long  wet  Sunday,  — 
So,  having  had  some  quarters  of  school-breeding, 
They  turned  themselves,  like  other  folks,  to  reading; 
But  setting  out  where  others  nigh  have  done, 
And  being  ripened  in  the  seventh  stage, 

The  childhood  of  old  age, 
Began,  as  other  children  have  begun,  — 
Not  with  the  pastorals  of  Mr.  Pope, 

Or  Bard  of  Hope, 
Or  Paley  ethical,  or  learned  Forson, — 
But  spelt,  on  Sabbaths,  in  St.  Mark,  or  John, 
And  then  relaxed  themselves  with  Whittington, 

Or  Valentine  and  Orson  — 
But  chiefly  fairy  tales  they  loved  to  con, 
And  being  easily  melted  in  their  dotage, 

Slobbered,  —  and  kept 

Reading,  —  and  wept 
Over  the  White  Cat,  in  their  wooden  cottage. 

Thus  reading  on  — the  longer 
They  read,  of  course,  their  childish  faith  grew  stronger 
In  Gnomes,  and  Hags,  and  Elves,  and  Giants  grim, — 
If  talking  trees  and  birds  revealed  to  him, 
She  saw  the  flight  of  Fairyland's  fly-wagons, 

And  magic  fishes  swim 
In  puddle  ponds,  and  took  old  crows  for  dragons, — 
Both  were  quite  drunk  from  the  enchanted  flagons; 
When,  as  it  fell  upon  a  summer's  day, 
As  the  old  man  sat.  a  feeding 

On  the  old  bab<  -reading, 
Beside  his  open  street-and-parlor  door, 

A  hideous  roar 
Proclaimed  a  drove  of  beasts  was  coming  by  the  way- 


384  A    FAIRY    TALE. 

Long-horned,  and  short,  of  many  a  different  breed, 
Tall,  tawny  brutes,  from  famous  Liucoln-levels, 

Or  Durham  feed, 
With  some  of  those  unquiet  black  dwarf  devils, 

From  nether  side  of  Tweed, 

Or  Firth  of  Forth  ; 
Looking  hah  wild  with  joy  to  leave  the  North, — 
With  dusty  hides,  all  mobbing  on  together, — 
When,  —  whether  from  a  fly's  malicious  comment 
Upon  his  tender  flank,  from  which  he  shrank  ; 

Or  whether 
Only  in  some  enthusiastic  moment,  — 
However,  one  brown  monster,  in  a  frisk, 
Giving  his  tail  a  perpendicular  whisk, 
Kicked  out  a  passage  through  the  beastly  rabble ; 
And  after  a  pas  seul,  —  or,  if  you  will,  a 
Hornpipe  before  the  basket-maker's  villa, 

Leapt  o'er  the  tiny  pale,  — 
Backed  his  beef-steaks  against  the  wooden  gable 
And  thrust  his  brawny  bell-rope  of  a  tail 
Right  o'er  the  page 
Wherein  the  sage 
Just  then  was  spelling  some  romantic  fable. 

The  old  man,  half  a  scholar,  half  a  dunce, 

Could  not  peruse  —  who  could  ?  —  two  tales  at  once ; 

And  being  huffed 
At  what  he  knew  was  none  of  Kiquet's  Tuft, 

Banged-to  the  door, 
But  most  unluckly  enclosed  a  morsel 
Of  the  intruding  tail,  and  all  the  tassel:  — 

The  monster  gave  a  roar, 
And  bolting  off  with  speed,  increased  by  pain, 


A    FAIRY    TALE.  385 

The  little  house  became  a  coach  once  more, 
And,  like  Macheath,  "  took  to  the  road  "  again  ! 

Just  then,  by  fortune's  whimsical  decree, 
The  ancient  woman  stooping  with  her  crupper 
Towards  sweet  home,  or  where  sweet  home  should  be, 
Was  getting  up  some  household  herbs  for  supper : 
Thoughtful  of  Cinderella,  in  the  tale, 
And  quaintly  wondering  if  magic  shifts 
Could  o'er  a  common  pumpkin  so  prevail, 
To  turn  it  to  a  coach,  —  what  pretty  gifts 
Might  come  of  cabbages,  and  curly  kale: 
Meanwhile  she  never  heard  her  old  man's  wail, 
Nor  turned,  till  home  had  turned  a  corner,  quite 
Gone  out  of  sight ! 


"»' 


At  last,  conceive  her,  rising  from  the  ground, 
Weary  of  sitting  on  her  russet  clothing; 
And  looking  round 
"Where  rest  was  to  be  found. 
There  was  no  house  —  no  villa  there  —  no  nothing! 
No  house ! 
The  change  was  quite  amazing; 
It  made  her  senses  stagger  for  a  minute, 
The  riddle's  explication  seemed  to  harden; 
Bui  soon  her  superannuated  nous 
Explained  the  horrid  mystery;  —  and  raising 
Her  hand  to  heaven,  with  the  cabbage  in  it, 

On  which  she  meant  to  sup, — 
'■  Well:  this  is  Fair)   Work!   I'll  bet  a  farden, 
kittle  Prince  Silverwings  has  ketched  me  up, 
And  set  me  down  in  some  one  else's  garden !  " 


386  THE    TURTLES. 


THE    TURTLES. 

A    FABLE. 

"The  rage  of  tho  vulture,  the  love  of  the  turtle."  —  BvROif. 

One  day,  it  was  before  a  civic  dinner, 

Two  London  aldermen,  no  matter  which, — 

Cordwainer,  Girdler,  Pattern-maker,  Skinner, — 
But  both  were  florid,  corpulent,  and  rich, 

And  both  right  fond  of  festive  demolition, 

Set  forth  upon  a  secret  expedition. 

Yet  not,  as  might  be  fancied  from  the  token, 
To  Pudding  Lane,  Pie  Corner,  <>r  the  Street 
Of  Bread,  or  Grub,  or  any  thing  to  eat, 

Or  drink,  as  Milk,  or  Vintry,  or  l'ortsoken, 

But  eastward,  to  that  more  aquatic  quarter, 
Where  folks  take  water, 

Or,  bound  on  voyages,  secure  a  berth 

For  Antwerp  or  Ostend,  Dundee  or  Perth, 

Calais,  Boulogne,  or  any  port  on  earth ! 

Jostled  and  jostling,  through  the  mud, 

Peculiar  to  the  town  of  Lud, 
Down  narrow  streets  and  crooked  lanes  they  dived, 

Past  many  a  gusty  avenue,  through  which 

Came  yellow  fog,  and  smell  of  pitch, 
From  barge,  and  boat,  and  dusky  wharf  derived  ; 
With  darker  fumes,  brought  eddying  by  the  draught, 

From  loco-smoko-motive  craft; 
Mingling  with  scents  of  butter,  cheese,  and  gammons, 

Tea.  coif'ee.  sugar,  pickles,  rosin,  wax. 

Hides,  taliow,  liussia  matting,  hemp  and  flax, 
Salt  cod,  red  herrings,  sprats,  and  kippered  salmons, 

Nuts,  oranges,  and  lemons, 


THE    TURTLES.  387 

Each  pungent  spice,  and  aromatic  gum, 
Gas,  pepper,  soaplees,  brandy,  gin,  and  rum; 
Alamode  beef  and  greens  —  the  London  soil  — 
Glue,  coal,  tobacco,  turpentine,  and  oil, 
Bark,  asafoetida,  squills,  vitriol,  hops, 
In  short,  all  whin's,  and  sniffs,  and  puffs,  and  snuffs, 
From  metals,  minerals,  and  dyewood  stuffs, 
Fruits,  victual,  drink,  solidities,  or  slops  — 
In  flasks,  casks,  bales,  trucks,  wagons,  taverns,  shops, 
Boats,  lighters,  cellars,  wharfs,  and  warehouse-tops, 
That,  as  we  walk  upon  the  river's  ridge, 
Assault  the  nose  —  below  the  bridge. 

A  walk,  however,  as  tradition  tells, 
That  once  a  poor  blind  Tobit  used  to  choose, 
Because,  incapable  of  other  views, 

He  met  with  "such  a  sight  of  smells." 

But  on,  and  on,  and  on, 
In  spite  of  all  unsavory  shocks, 

Progress  the  stout  Sir  Peter  and  Sir  John, 
Steadily  steering  ship-like  for  the  docks  — 
And  now  they  reach  a  place  the  Muse,  unwilling, 
Recalls  for  female  slang  and  vulgar  doinsr, 
The  famous  Gate  of  Billing 
That  does  not  lead  to  cooing  — 
And  now  they  pass  that  house  that  is  so  ugly 
A  customer  to  people  looking  smuggl'y  — 
And  now  along  that  fatal  hill  they  pass 
Where  centuries  ago  an  Oxford  bled, 
And  proved — too  late  to  save  his  life,  alas!  — 
That  he  was  "  off  his  head.'' 

At  last  before  a  Lofty  brick-built  pile 

Sir  Peter  stopped,  and  with  mysterious  smile 


• 


388  THE    TURTLES. 


Tinkled  a  bell  that  served  to  brinff 

The  wire-drawn  genius  of  the  ring, 

A  species  of  commercial  Samuel  "Weller  — 

To  whom  Sir  Peter,  tipping  him  a  wink, 

And  something  else  to  drink, 

"Show  us  the  cellar." 

Obsequious  bowed  the  man,  and  led  the  way 
Down  sundry  flights  of  stairs,  where  windows  small, 
Dappled  with  mud,  let  in  a  dingy  ray  — 
A  dirty  tax,  if  they  were  taxed  at  all. 
At  length  they  came  into  a  cellar  damp, 
With  venerable  cobwebs  fringed  around, 

A  cellar  of  that  stamp 
Which  often  harbors  vintages  renowned, 
The  feudal  Hock,  or  Burgundy  the  courtly, 

With  sherry,  brown  or  golden, 

Or  port,  so  olden, 
Bereft  of  body  'tis  no  longer  portly  — 
But  old  or  otherwise  —  to  be  veracious  — 
That  cobwebbed  cellar,  damp,  and  dim,  and  spacious, 
Held  nothing  crusty  —  but  crustaceous. 

Prone  on  the  chilly  floor, 
Five  splendid  turtles  —  such  a  five ! 
Natives  of  some  West  Indian  shore, 

Were  flapping  all  alive, 
Late  landed  from  the  Jolly  Planter's  yawl  — 
A  sight  whereon  the  dignitaries  fixed 
Their  eager  eyes,  with  ecstasy  unmixed, 
Like  fathers  t hat  behold  their  infants  crawl, 
Enjoying  every  little  kick  and  sprawl. 
Nay  —  far  from  fatherly  the  thoughts  they  bred, 
Poor  loggerheads  from  far  Ascension  ferried  ! 
The  Aldermen  too  plainly  wished  them  dead 
And  Aldermanbury'd ! 


THE    TURTLES.  389 

"  There !  "  cried  Sir  Peter,  with  an  air 
Triumphant  as  an  ancient  victor's, 
And  pointing  to  the  creatines  rich  and  rare, 
"  There's  picters  ! 

"Talk  of  Olympic  Games!     They're  not  worth  mention  j 
The  real  prize  for  wrestling  is  when  Jack, 

In  Providence  or  Ascension, 
Can  throw  a  lively  turtle  on  its  back ! " 

"  Ay ! "  cried  Sir  John,  and  with  a  score  of  nods, 
Thoughtful  of  classical  symposium, 

"  There's  food  for  gods  ! 
There's  nectar!  there's  ambrosium! 
There's  fond  tor  Roman  emperors  to  eat  — 

O,  there  had  been  a  treat 
(Those  ancient,  names  will  sometimes  hobble  us) 

For  I  [elio-gobble-us ! 

"There  were  a  feast  for  Alexander's  Feast ! 

The  real  sort  —  none  of  your  mock  or  spurious  !" 

And  then  he  mentioned  Aldermen  deceased, 

And  "  Epicurius," 
And  how  Tertullian  had  enjoyed  such  foison ; 
And  speculated  on  that  verdigrease 

That  isn't  poison. 

"  Talk  of  your  Spring,  and  verdure,  and  all  that ! 

Give  m<  green  fat ! 
As  for  your  poets  with  their  groves  of  myrtles 

And  billing  turt  I 
Give  me,  for  poetry,  them  Turtles  there, 

A-billing  in  a  bill  of  fare  ! 

"  Of  all  the  things  T  ever  swallow  — 
Good,  well-dressed  turtle  heats  them  hollow; 
33  • 


?/J0  'J'HK    TURTLES. 

It  almost  makes  me  wish,  I  vow, 
To  have  two  stomachs,  like  a  cow ! " 
And,  lo!  as  with  the  cud,  an  inward  thrill 
Upheaved  his  waistcoat  and  disturbed  his  frill, 
His  mouth  was  oozing  and  he  worked  his  jaw  — 
"  I  almost  think  that  I  could  eat  one  raw  ! " 

And  thus,  as  "inward  love  breeds  outward  talk," 
The  portly  pair  continued  to  discourse ; 
And  then  —  as  Gray  describes  of  life's  divorce  — 
With  "  longing,  lingering  look  "  prepared  to  walk, 
Having  through  one  delighted  sense,  at  least, 
Enjoyed  a  sort  of  Barmecidal  feast, 
And  with  prophetic  gestures,  strange  to  see, 
Forestalled  the  civic  banquet  yet  to  be, 
Its  callipash  and  callipee ! 

A  pleasant  prospect  — but,  alack  ! 
Scarcely  each  Alderman  had  turned  his  back, 
When,  seizing  on  the  moment  so  propitious, 
And  having  learned  that  they  were  so  delicious 

To  bite  and  sup, 
From  praises  so  high  flown  and  injudicious,  — 

And  nothing  could  be  more  pernicious  ! 
The  Turtles  fell  to  work,  and  ate  each  other  up ! 

floral. 

Never,  from  folly  or  urbanity, 
Praise  people  thus  profusely  to  their  faces, 
Till,  quite  in  love  with  their  own  graces, 
They're  eaten  up  by  vanity  ! 


LOVE    LANE.  391 


LOVE   LANE. 


If  I  should  love  a  maiden  more, 
And  woo  her  every  hope  to  crown, 
I'd  love  her  all  the  country  o'er, 
15  ut  not  declare  it  out  of  town. 

One  even,  by  a  mossy  bank, 

That  held  a  hornet's  nest  within, 

To  Ellen  on  my  knees  I  sank,  — 

How  snakes  will  twine  around  the  shin ! 

A  bashful  fear  my  soul  unnerved. 
And  gave  my  heart  a  backward  tug  ; 
Nor  was  I  cheered  when  she  observed, 
Whilst  I  was  silent,  "  What  a  slug  !  " 

At  length  my  offer  I  preferred, 
And  Hope  a  kind  reply  forebode  — 
Alas  !   the  only  sound  I  heard 
Was,  ••  What  a  horrid  ugly  toad  !  " 

1  vowed  to  give  her  all  my  heart, 
To  love  her  till  my  life  took  leave, 
And  painted  all  a  lover's  smart  — 
Except  a  wasp  gone  up  his  sleeve! 

But  when  I  ventured  to  abide 
Her  father's  and  her  mother's  grants- 
Sudden  she  started  up  and  cried, 
'•  ()  dear !  I  am  all  over  ants  !  " 

Nay,  when  beginning  to  beseech 

The  cause  that  led  to  my  rebuff, 


392  L0VE  lane. 

The  answer  was  as  strange  a  speech  — 
A  "  Dadcly-Longlegs,  sure  enough  ! "' 

I  spoke  of  fortune  —  house,  —  and  lands, 
And  still  renewed  the  warm  attack, — 
Tis  vain  to  offer  ladies  hands 
That  have  a  spider  on  the  back  ! 

Tis  vain  to  talk  of  hopes  and  fears, 
And  hope  the  least  reply  to  win, 
From  any  maid  that  stops  her  ears 
In  dread  of  earwigs  creeping  in  ! 

'Tis  vain  to  call  the  dearest  names 
Whilst  stoats  and  weasels  startle  by  — 
As  vain  to  talk  of  mutual  flames 
To  one  with  glowworms  in  her  eye ! 

AVhat  checked  me  in  my  fond  address, 
And  knocked  each  pretty  image  down? 
What  stopped  my  Ellen's  faltering  yes? 
A  caterpillar  on  her  gown  ! 

To  list  to  Philomel  is  sweet  — 

To  see  the  moon  rise  silver-pale,  — 

But  not  to  kneel  at  lady's  feet 
And  crush  a  rival  in  a  snail  ! 

Sweet  is  the  eventide,  and  kind 
Its  zephyr,  balmy  as  the  south  ; 
Eut  sweeter  still  to  speak  your  mind 
Without  a  chafer  in  jour  mouth  ! 

At  last,  emboldened  by  my  bliss, 
Still  fickle  Fortune  played  me  foul, 


DOMESTIC    TOEMS.  393 

For  when  I  strove  to  snatch  a  kiss 

She  screamed  —  by  proxy,  through  an  owl ! 

Then,  lovers,  doomed  to  life  or  death, 
Shun  moonlight,  twilight,  lanes  and  bats, 
Lest  you  should  have  in  self-same  breath 
To  bless  your  fate  —  and  curse  the  gnats  ! 


DOMESTIC  POEMS. 

'  It's  hame,  hame,  hame."  —  A.  Cunningham. 
"There's  uo  place  like  home."  —  Claw. 

I. 

HYMENEAL    RETROSPECTIONS. 

OK  Air.!  my   dear   partner,   through  joy  and  through 
strife ! 

When  I  look  back  at  Hymen's  dear  dav, 
Not  a  lovelier  bride  ever  changed  to  a  wife, 

Though  you're  now  so  old,  wizened,  and  gray  ! 

Those  eyes,  then,  were  stars,  shining  rulers  of  fate  ! 

lint  as  liquid  as  stars  in  a  pool; 
Though  now  they're  so  dim,  they  appear,  my  dear  Kate, 

Just  like  gooseberries  boiled  for  a  fool! 

Thai  brow  was  like  marble,  so  smooth  and  so  fair; 

Though  it's  wrinkled  so  crookedly  now, 
As  if  Time,  when  those  furrows  were  made  by  the  share, 

Had  been  tipsy  whilst  driving  his  plough! 

Your  nose,  ii  was  such  as  the  sculptors  all  chose, 

When  a  Venus  demanded  their  skill  ; 
Though  now   ii  can  hardlj   be  reckoned  a  nose, 

But  a  son  of Poll-Parroty  bill! 


394  DOMESTIC    POEMS. 

Your  mouth,  it  was  then  quite  a  bait  for  the  bees, 

Such  a  nectar  there  hung  on  each  lip  ; 
Though  now  it  has  taken  that  lemon-like  squeeze, 

Not  a  blue-bottle  comes  for  a  sip  ! 

Your  chin,  it  was  one  of  Love  favorite  haunts, 
From  its  dimple  he  could  not  get  loose ; 

Though  now  the  neat  hand  of  a  barber  it  wants, 
Or  a  singe,  like  the  breast  of  a  goose ! 

How  rich  were  those  locks,  so  abundant  and  full, 

With  their  ringlets  of  auburn  so  deep  ! 
Though  now  they  look  only  like  frizzles  of  wool, 

By  a  bramble  torn  oft'  from  a  sheep ! 

That  neck,  not  a  swan  could  excel  it  in' grace, 
While  in  whiteness  it  vied  with  your  arms : 

Though  now  a  grave  'kerchief  you  properly  place, 
To  conceal  that  scrag-end  of  your  charms! 

Your  figure  was  tall,  then,  and  perfectly  straight, 
Though  it  now  has  two  twists  from  upright  — 

But  bless  you  !  still  bless  you  !  my  partner!  my  Kate! 
Though  you  be  such  a  perfect  old  fright ! 

II. 

The  sun  was  slumbering  in  the  west,  my  daily  labors 

past  ; 
On  Anna's  soft  and  gentle  breast  my  head  reclined  at 

last ! 
The  darkness  closed  around,  so  dear  to  fond  congenial 

souls ; 
And  thus  she  murmured  at  my  ear,  "  My  love,  we're 

out  of  coals ! 

"That   Mister  Bond  has  called  again,  insisting  on  his 
rent ; 


DOMESTIC    POEMS.  39,3 

And  all  the  Todds  are  coming  up  to  see  us,  out  of  Kent ; 
I  quite  forgot  to  tell  you  John  has  had  a  tipsy  fall ;  — 
I'm  sure  there's  something  going  on  with  that  vile  Mary 
Hall! 

"  Miss  Bell  has  bought  the  sweetest  silk,  and  I  have 

bought  the  rest  — 
Of  course,  if  we  go  out  of  town,  Southend  will  be  the 

best. 
I  really  think   the  Jones's  house  would  be  the  thing 

for  us  ; 
I  think  I  told  you  Mrs.  Pope  had  parted  with  her  nus. 

"  Cook,  by  the  way,  came  up  to-day,  to  bid  me  suit 

myself — 
And  what  d'ye  think  ?  the  rats  have  gnawed  the  victuals 

on  the  shelf 
And,  Lord !  there's  such  a  letter  come,  inviting  you  to 

fight ! 
Of  course  you  don't  intend  to  go  —  God  bless  you,  dear, 

good-night !  " 

III. 

A    PARENTAL    ODE    TO    MY    SON,    AGED    THREE    YEARS    AM? 
FIVE    MONTHS. 

THOU  happy,  happy  elf! 
(But  stop,  —  first  let  me  kiss  away  that  tear)  — 

Thou  tiny  image  of  myself! 
(My  love,  he's  poking  peas  into  his  ear  !  ) 

Thou  merry,  laughing  sprite! 

Willi  spirits  feather-light, 
Untouched  by  sorrow,  and  unsoiled  by  sin  — 
(Good  heavens  !  the  child  is  swallowing  a  piu !) 


39 G  DOMESTIC    TOEMS. 

Thou  little  tricksy  Puck  ! 
With  antic,  toys  so  funnily  bestuck, 
Light  as  the  singing  bird  that  wings  the  air  — 
(The  door  !  the  ^>oor  !  he'll  tumble  down  the  stair  !) 

Thou  darling  of  thy  sire  ! 
(Why,  Jane,  he'll  set  his  pinafore  afire !) 

Thou  imp  of  mirth  and  joy! 
In  Love's  dear  chain  so  strong  and  bright  a  link, 
Thou  idol  of  thy  parents —  (Drat  the  boy! 

There  goes  my  ink  !) 

Thou  cherub  —  but  of  earth ; 
Fit  playfellow  for  Fays,  by  moonlight  pale, 

In  harmless  sport  and  mirth, 
(That  dog  will  bite  him  if  he  pulls  its  tail !) 

Thou  human  humming-bee,  extracting  honey 
From  every  blossom  in  the  world  that  blows, 

Singing  in  youth's  elysium  ever  sunny, 
(Another  tumble  !  —  that's  his  precious  nose !) 

Thy  father's  pride  and  hope ! 
(He'll  break  the  mirror  with  that  skipping-rope!) 
With  pure  heart  newly  stamped  from  Nature's  mint  - 
(Where  did  he  learn  that  squint  ?) 

Thou  young  domestic  dove  ! 
(He'll  have  that  jug  off,  with  another  shove!) 

Dear  nursling  of  the  Hymeneal  nest! 

(Are  those  torn  clothes  his  best  ?) 

Little  epitome  of  man  ! 
(He'll  climb  upon  the  table,  that's  his  plan  !) 
Touched  with  the  beauteous  tints  of  dawning  life  — 

(He's  got  a  knife  !) 

Thou  enviable  being ! 
No  storms,  no  clouds,  in  thy  blue  sky  foreseeing, 


A    SERENADE.  397 

Play  on,  play  on, 

My  elfin  John ! 
Toss  the  light  ball  —  bestride  the  stick  — 
(I  knew  so  many  cakes  would  make  him  sick!) 
With  fancies,  buoyant  as  the  thistle-down. 
Prompting  the  face  grotesque,  and  antic  brisk, 

With  many  a  lamb-like  frisk, 
(He's  got  the  scissors,  snipping  at  your  gown !) 

Thou  pretty  opening  rose ! 
(Go  to  your  mother,  child,  and  wipe  your  nose !) 
Balmy  and  breathing  music  like  the  South, 
(He  really  brings  my  heart  into  my  mouth!) 
Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  brilliant  as  its  star,  — 
(I  wish  that  window  had  an  iron  bar !) 
Bold  as  the  hawk,  yet  gentle  as  the  dove, — 

(I'll  tell  you  what,  my  love, 
I  cannot  write  unless  he's  sent  above !) 

IV. 

A    SERENADE. 

"Lullaby,  O,  lullaby!" 
Thus  I  heard  a  father  cry, 

"Lullaby,  O,  lullaby! 
The  brat  will  never  shut  an  eye; 
Hither  come,  some  power  divine! 
Close  his  iids,  or  open  mine  !  " 

"Lullaby.  ().  lullaby! 
Wlrit  the  devil  makes  him  crv  ? 
Lullaby,  ().  lullabv  ! 

Still  he  stares  —  1  wonder  why, 
Why  are  noi  the  sons  of  earth 
Blind,  like  puppies,  from  the  birth  ? '* 
oi 


398  A    PLAIN    DIRECTION. 

"  Lullaby,  O,  lullaby ! " 
Thus  I  heard  the  father  cry; 

"Lullaby,  0,  lullaby! 
Mary,  you  must  come  and  try!  — 
Hush,  O,  hush,  for  mercy's  sake  — 
The  more  I  sing,  the  more  you  wake !  " 

"  Lullaby,  0,  lullaby  ! 
Fie,  you  little  creature,  fie  ! 

Lullaby,  0,  lullaby  ! 
Is  no  poppy-syrup  nigh  ? 
Give  him  some,  or  give  him  all, 
I  am  nodding  to  his  foil !  " 

"  Lullaby,  O,  lullaby ! 
Two  such  nights  and  I  shall  die  ! 

Lullaby,  O,  lullaby ! 
He'll  be  bruised,  and  so  shall  I,  — 
How  can  I  from  bed-posts  keep, 
When  I'm  walking  in  my  sleep  !  " 

"  Lullaby,  O,  lullaby ! 
Sleep  his  very  looks  deny  — 

Lullaby,  o",  lullaby! 
Nature  soon  will  stupefy  — 
My  nerves  relax,  —  my  eyes  grow  dim  — 
Who's  that  fallen  —  me  or  him  ?  " 


A   PLAIN  DIRECTION. 

"Do  you  never  del  late  J  "  —  John  Bull. 

In  London  once  I  lost  my  May  in  firing  to  and  fro, 
And  asked  a  ragged  little  boy  the  way  that  I  should  go; 


JL 


A    PLAIN    DIRECTION".  399 

He  gave  a  nod,  and  then  a  wink,  and  told  me  to  get  there 
"Straight  down  the  Crooked  Lane,  and  all  round  the 
Square." 

I  hoxed  his  little  saucy  ears,  and  then  away  I  strode; 
But  since  I've  found  that  weary  path  is  quite  a  common 

road. 
Utopia  is  a  pleasant  place,  but  how  shall  I  get  there  ? 
"  Straight  down  the  Crooked  Lane,  and  all  round  the 

Square." 

I've  read  about  a  famous  town  that  drove  a  famous  trade, 
Where  Whittington  walked  up  and  found  a  fortune  ready 

made. 
The  very  streets  are  paved  with  gold  ;  but  how  shall  I 

get  there  ? 
"  Straight  down  the  Crooked  Lane,  and  all  round  the 

Square." 

I've  read  about  a  Fairy  Land,  in  some  romantic  tale, 
Where  dwarfs  if  good  are  sure  to  thrive,  and  wicked 

giants  fail ; 
My  wish  is  great,  my  shoes  are  strong,  but  how  shall  I 

get  there  ? 


tv 


"  Straight  down  the  Crooked  Lane,  and  all  round  the 
Square." 

I've  heard  about  some  happy  isle,  where  every  man  is 

free, 
And  none  can  lie  in  bonds  for  life  for  want  of  L.  S.  1). 
O!  that's  the  land  of  Liberty !  bul  how  shall  I  get  there  ? 
"Straight  down  the  Crooked  Lane,  and  all  round  the 

Square." 

I've  dreamt  about  some  blessed  spot,  beneath  the  blessed 

sky, 

Where  bread  and  justice  never  rise  too  dear  for  folks  to 
buy. 


400  A   PLAIN'    DIRECTION. 

It's  cheaper  than  the  Ward  of  Cheap,  but  how  shall  1 
get  there? 

"Straight  clown  the   Crooked  Lane,  and  all  round  the 
Square." 

They  say  there  is  an  ancient  house,  as  pure  as  it  is  old, 
Where  members  always  speak  their  minds,  and  votes  are 

never  sold. 
I'm  fond  of  all  antiquities,  but  how  shall  I  get  there  ? 
"  Straight  down  the  Crooked  Lane,  and  all  round  the 

Square." 

They  say  there  is  a  royal  court  maintained  in  noble  state, 
Where  every  able  man,  and  good,  is  certain  to  be  great ! 
I'm  very  fond  of  seeing  sights,  but  how  shall  I  get  there  ? 
"  Straight  down  the  Crooked  Lane,  and  all  round  the 
Square." 

They  say  there  is  a  temple  too,  where  Christians  come  to 

pray ; 
But  canting  knaves  and  hypocrites  and  bigots  keep  away. 
O !  that's  the  parish  church  for  me  !  but  how  shall  I  get 

there  ?. 
"  Straight  down  the  Crooked  Lane,  and  all  round  the 

Square." 

They  say  there  is  a  garden  fair,  that's  haunted  by  the 

dove, 
Where  love  of  gold  doth  ne'er  eclipse  the  golden  light 

of  love  ; 
The  place  must  be  a  Paradise,  but  how  shall  I  get  there? 
"  Straight  down  the  Crooked  Lane,  and  all  round  the 

Square." 

I've  heard  there  is  a  famous  land  for  public  spirit  known  — 
Whose  patriots  love  its  interests  much  better  than  their 
own. 


EQUESTRIAN    COURTSHIP.  401 

The  Land  of  Promise  sure  it  is !  but  how  shall  I  get 

there  ? 
"  Straight  down  the  Crooked  Lane,  and  all  round  the 

Square." 

I've  read  about  a  fine  estate,  a  mansion  large  and  strong ; 
A  view  all  over  Kent  and  hack,  and  going  for  a  song. 
George  Robins  knows  the  very  spot,  but  how  shall  I  get 

there  ? 
"  Straight  down  the   Crooked  Lane,  and  all  round  the 

Square." 

I've  heard  there  is  a  company  all  formal  and  enrolled, 
Will  take  your  smallest  silver  coin  and  give  it  hack  in 

gold. 
Of  course  the  office-door  is  mobbed,  but  how  shall  I  get 

there  ? 
"  Straight  down  the  Crooked  Lane,  and  all  round  the 

Square." 

I've  heard  about  a  pleasant  land,  where  omelettes  grow 

on  trees, 
And  roasted  pigs  run  crying  out,  "  Come  eat  me,  if  you 

please." 
My  appetite  is  rather  keen,  but  how  shall  I  get  there? 
"Straight  down  the  Crooked  Lane,  and  all  round  the 

Square." 


EQUESTRIAN   COURTSHIP. 

It  was  a  young  maiden  went  forth  to  ride, 
And  there  was  a  wooer  to  pace  by  her  side; 
His  horse  was  so  little,  and  hers  so  high, 

lie  thought  his  angel  was  up  in  the  sky. 
34  * 


402 


AN    OrF.X    QUESTION'. 


His  love  was  great,  though  his  wit  was  small ; 
He  bade  her  ride  easy  —  and  thai  was  all. 
The  very  horses  began  to  neigh, — 
Because  their  betters  had  nought  to  say. 

They  rode  by  elm,  and  they  rode  by  oak, 

They  rode  by  a  church-yard,  and  then  he  spoke  :-^ 

"  My  pretty  maiden,  if  you'll  agree 

You  shall  always  ramble  through  life  with  me." 

The  damsel  answered  him  never  a  word, 

But  kicked  the  gray  mare,  and  away  she  spurred. 

The  wooer  still  followed  behind  the  jade, 

And  enjoyed—  like  a  wooer  —  the  dust  she  made. 

They  rode  through  moss,  and  they  rode  through  moot 

The  gallant  behind,  and  the  lass  before ;  — 

At  last  they  came  to  a  miry  place, 

And  there  the  sad  wooer  gave  up  the  chase. 

Quoth  he,  "  If  my  nag  were  better  to  ride, 

I'd  follow  her  over  the  world  so  wide. 

O,  it  is  not  my  love  that  begins  to  fail, 

But  I've  lost  the  last  glimpse  of  the  gray  mare's  tail! 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 

"  It  is  the  king's  highway  that  we  are  in,  and  in  this  way  it  is  t^it 
thou  hast  placed  the  Huns."—  Bun'YAN. 

What!  shut  the  gardens!  lock  the  latticed  gate! 

liefuse  the  shilling  and  the  fellow's  ticket ! 
And  hang  a  wooden  notice  up  to  state, 

"  On  Sundays  no  admittance  at  this  wicket ! " 
The  Birds,  the  Beasts,  and  all  th»  Aeptile  race, 


AN    OrEN    QUESTION.  4Q3 

Denied  to  friends  and  visitors  till  Monday! 
Now,  really,  this  appears  the  common  case 
Of  putting  too  much  Sabbath  into  Sunday  — 
But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

The  Gardens,  —  so  unlike  the  ones  we  dub 
Of  Tea,  wherein  the  artisan  carouses, — 

Mere  shrubberies  without  one  drop  of  shrub, 

Wherefore  should  they  be  closed  like  public  houses  ? 

No  ale  is  vended  at  the  wild  Deer's  Head,  — 
No  rum  —  nor  gin  —  not  even  of  a  Monday  — 

The  Lion  is  not  carved  —  or  gilt  —  or  red,  — 
And  does  not  send  out  porter  of  a  Sunday  — 
But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy? 

The  Bear  denied !  the  Leopard  under  locks  ! 

As  if  his  spots  would  give  contagious  fevers ! 
The  Beaver  close  as  hat  within  its  box  ; 

So  different  from  other  Sunday  beavers! 
The  Birds  invisible  —  the  Gnaw-way  Rats  — 

The  Seal  hermetically  sealed  till  Monday  — 
The  Monkey  tribe  —  the  Family  of  Cats, — 

We  visit  other  families  on  Sunday  — 

But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

What  is  the  brute  profanity  thai  shocks 

The  super-sensitivcly  serious  feeling? 
The  Kangaroo  —  is  he  not  orthodox 

To  bend  his  legs,  the  way  he  does,  in  kneeling? 
A\  as  strict  Sir  Andrew,  in  his  Sabbath  coat, 

St  ruck  all  a-heap  to  sec  a  Coati  mundi? 

Or  did  the  Kentish  l'lunilree  faint   to  note 

Tin'  Pelicans  presenting  bills  mi  Sundaj  ?  — 
But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 


•104  A?J    OPEN    QUESTION. 

What  feature  has  repulsed  the  serious  set  ? 

What  error  in  the  bestial  birth  or  breeding, 
To  put  their  tender  fancies  on  the  fret  ? 

One  thing  is  plain  —  it  is  not  in  the  feeding! 
Some  stiihsh  people  think  that  smoking  joints 

Are  carnal  sins  'twixt  Saturday  and  Monday  — 
But  then  the  beasts  are  pious  on  these  points, 

For  they  all  eat  cold  dinners  on  a  Sunday  — 

But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

What  change  comes  o'er  the  spirit  of  the  place, 
As  if  transmuted  by  some  spell  organic  ? 

Turns  fell  Hyena  of  the  Ghoulish  race  ? 
The  Snake, pro  t<>i//»>re,  the  true  Satanic? 

Do  Irish  minds,  —  (whose  theory  allows 

That  now  and  then  Good  Friday  falls  on  Monday)  — 

Do  Irish  minds  suppose  that  Indian  Cows 

Are  wicked  Bulls  of  Bashan  on  a  Sunday  ?  — 
But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

There  are  some  moody  Fellows,  not  a  few, 
Who,  turned  by  Nature  with  a  gloomy  bias, 

Renounce  black  devils  to  adopt  the  blue, 

And  think  when  they  are  dismal  they  are  pious: 

Is't  possible  that  Pug's  untimely  fun 

lias  sent  the  brutes  to  Coventry  till  Monday — 

Or  perhaps  some  animal,  no  serious  one, 
Was  overheard  in  laughter  on  a  Sunday  — 
But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

What  dire  offence  have  serious  Fellows  found 

To  raise  their  spleen  against  the  Regent's  spinney  ? 

Were  charitable  boxes  handed  round, 

And  would  not  Guinea  Pigs  subscribe  their  guinea? 

Perchance,  the  Demoiselle  refused  to  moult 


AN    OPEN    QUESTION.  405 

The  feathers  in  her  head  —  at  least  till  Monday  ; 
Or  did  the  Elephant,  unseemly,  bolt 

A  tract  presented  to  be  read  on  Sunday  ?  — 
But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

At  whom  did  Leo  struggle  to  get  loose  ? 

Who   mourns  through   Monkey   tricks  his  damaged 
clothing  ? 
Who  has  been  hissed  by  the  Canadian  Goose  ? 

On  whom  did  Llama  spit  in  utter  loathing  ? 
Some  Smithfield  Saint  did  jealous  feelings  tell 

To  keep  the  Puma  out  of  sight  till  Monday, 
Because  he  preyed  extempore  as  well 

As  certain  Mild  Itinerants  on  Sunday  — 

But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

To  me  it  seems  that  in  the  oddest  way 

(Begging  the  pardon  of  each  rigid  Socius) 
Our  would-be  Keepers  of  the  Sabbath-day 

Are  like  the  Keepers  of  the  brutes  ferocious  — 
As  soon  the  Tiger  might  expect  to  stalk 

About  the  grounds  from  Saturday  till  Monday, 
As  any  harmless  man  to  take  a  walk, 

B"  Saints  could  clap  him  in  a  cage  on  Sunday — ■ 

But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy? 

In  spite  of  all  hypocrisj  can  spin, 

As  surely  as  1  am  a  Christian  scion, 
I  cannot  think  it  is  a  mortal  sin  — 

(Unless  lie's  loose)  — to  look  upon  a  lion. 
I  really  think  that  one  may  go,  perchance, 

To  see  a  bear,  as  guiltless  as  en  Monday  — 
(That  is.  provided  that  he  did  not  dance)  — 

Bruin's  no  worse  than  bakin*  on  a  Sunday)  — 

But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundj  ? 


40 0  AN    OrKN    QUESTION. 

In  spite  of  all  the  fanatic  compiles, 

I  cannot  think  the  day  a  bit  diviner, 
Because  no  children,  with  forestalling  smiles, 

Throng,  happy,  to  the  gates  of  Eden  Minor  — 
It  is  not  plain,  to  my  poor  faith,  at  least, 

That  what  we  christen  "  Natural  "  on  Monday, 
The  wondrous  history  of  Bird  and  Beast, 

Can  be  unnatural  because  it's  Sunday  — 

But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

"Whereon  is  sinful  fantasy  to  work  ? 

The  Dove,  the  winged  Columbus  of  man's  haven  ? 
The  tender  Love-Bird  —  or  the  filial  Stork  ? 

The  punctual  Crane  —  the  providential  Raven  ? 
The  Pelican  whose  bosom  feeds  her  voung  ? 

Nay,  must  we  cut  from  Saturday  till  Monday 
That  feathered  marvel  with  a  human  tongue, 

Because  she  does  not  preach  upon  a  Sunday  — 

But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

The  busy  Beaver  —  that  sagacious  beast ! 

The  Sheep  that  owned  an  Oriental  Shepherd  — 
That  Desert-ship,  the  Camel  of  the  East, 

The  horned  Rhinoceros  —  the  spotted  Leopard — ■ 
The  Creatures  of  the  Great  Creator's  hand 

Are  surely  sights  for  better  days  than  Monday  — 
The  Elephant,  although  he  wears  no  band, 

Has  he  no  sermon  in  his  trunk  for  Sunday  ?  — 

But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

What  harm  if  men  who  burn  the  midnight-oil. 
Weary  of  frame,  and  worn  and  wan  of  feature, 

Seek  once  a  week  their  spirits  to  assoil, 

And  snatch  a  glimpse  of  "  Animated  Nature  "? 

Better  it  were  if,  in  his  best  of  suits, 


A    BLACK    JOB.  4Q7 

The  artisan,  who  goes  to  work  on  Monday, 
Should  spend  a  leisure-hour  amongst  the  brutes, 
Than  make  a  beast  of  his  own  self  on  Sunday  — 
But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

Why,  zounds !  what  raised  so  Protestant  a  fuss 
(Omit  the  zounds  !  for  which  I  make  apology) 

But  that  the  Papists,  like  some  Fellows,  thus 

Had  somehow  mixed  up  Deua  with  their  Theology  ? 

Is  Brahma's  Bull  —  a  Hindoo  god  at  home  — 
A  Papal  Bull  to  be  tied  up  till  Monday  — 

Or  Leo,  like  his  namesake,  Pope  of  Rome, 

That  there  is  such  a  dread  of  them  on  Sunday  — 
But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

Spirit  of  Kant !  have  we  not  had  enough 
To  make  Religion  sad,  and  sour,  and  snubbish, 

But  Saints  Zoological  must  cant  their  stuff, 

As  vessels  cant  their  ballast  —  rattling  rubbish! 
Once  let  the  sect,  triumphant  to  their  text, 

Shut  Nero  up  from  Saturday  till  Monday, 
And  sure  as  fete  they  will  deny  us  next 

To  see  the  Dandelions  on  a  Sunday  — 

But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 


A  BLACK  JOB. 

"No  doubl  the  pleasure  is  as  great 
Of  being  cheated  as  to  chi  it."  —  Hummus. 

Tin-:  history  of  human-kind  to  trace 

Since  Eve  —  the  first  of  dupes  —  0'ir  doom  unriddled, 
A  certain  portion  of  the  human  race 

Has  certainly  a  taste  for  being  diddled. 


408  A    BLACK    JOB. 

Witness  the  famous  Mississippi  dreams ! 

A  rage  that  time  seems  only  to  redouble  — 
The  Banks,  Joint-Stocks,  and  all  the  flimsy  schemes, 

For  rolling  in  Pactolian  streams, 
That  cost  our  modern  rogues  so  little  trouble. 
No  matter  what,  —  to  pasture  cows  on  stubble, 

To  twist  sea-sand  into  a  solid  rope, 
To  make  French  bricks  and  fancy  bread  of  rubble, 
Or  light  with  gas  the  whole  celestial  cope  — 

Only  propose  to  blow  a  bubble, 
And,  Lord  !  what  hundreds  will  suscribe  for  soap  ! 

Soap !  it  reminds  me  of  a  little  tale, 

Though  not  a  pig's,  the  hawbuck's  glory, 
"When  rustic  games  and  merriment  prevail  — 

But  here's  my  story  : 
Once  on  a  time  — no  matter  when  — 
A  knot  of  very  charitable  men 
Set  up  a  Philanthropical  Society, 
Professing  on  a  certain  plan 
To  benefit  the  race  of  man, 
And  in  particular  that  dark  variety, 
Which  some  suppose  inferior —  as  in  vermin, 

The  sable  is  to  ermine, 
As  smut  to  flour,  as  coal  to  alabaster, 

As  crows  to  swans,  or  soot  to  driven  snow, 
As  blacking,  or  as  ink  to  "  milk  below," 
Or  yet,  a  better  simile  to  show, 
As  ragman's  dolls  to  images  in  plaster! 

However,  as  is  usual  in  our  city, 

They  had  a  sort  of  managing  Committee, 

A  board  of  grave,  responsible  Directors — . 
A  Secretary,  good  at  pen  and  ink  — 
A  Treasurer,  of  course,  to  keep  the  chink, 


A    BLACK    JOB.  409 

And  quite  an  army  of  Collectors ! 
Not  merely  male,  but  female  duns, 

Young,  old,  and  middle-aged  —  of  all  degrees  — 
With  many  of  those  persevering  ones, 

Who  mite  by  mite  would  beg  a  cheese ! 
And  what  might  be  their  aim  ? 

To  rescue  Afric's  sable  sons  from  fetters  — 
To  save  their  bodies  from  the  burning  shame 

Of  branding  with  hot  letters  — 
Their  shoulders  from  the  cowhids's  bloody  strokes, 

Their  necks  from  iron  yokes  ? 
To  end  or  mitigate  the  ills  of  slavery, 
The  Planter's  avarice,  the  Driver's  knavery  ? 
To  school  the  heathen  negroes  and  enlighten  'em, 

To  polish  up  and  brighten  'em, 
And  make  them  worthy  of  eternal  bliss  ? 
Why,  no  —  the  simple  end  and  aim  was  this  — 
Heading  a  well-known  proverb  much  amiss  — 
To  wash  and  whiten  'em  ! 

They  looked  so  ugly  in  their  sable  hides ; 

So  dark,  so  dingy,  like  a  grubby  lot 
Of  sooty  sweeps,  or  colliers,  and  besides, 
However  the  poor  elves, 
Might  wash  themselves, 
Nobody  knew  if  they  were  clean  or  not  — 
On  Nature's  fairness  they  were  quite  a  blot  I 
Not  to  forgel  more  serious  complaints 
That,  even  while  they  joined  in  pious  hymn, 
S  )  black  they  were  and  grim, 
In  face  and  limb, 
They  looked  like  Devils,  though  they  sang  like  Saints. 

The  thing  was  undeniable  ! 
They  wanted  washing!  not  that  slight  ablution 
35 


410  a  black  jon. 

To  which  the  skin  of  the  white  man  is  liable, 

Merely  removing  transient  pollution  — 
But  good,  hard,  honest,  energetic  rubbing 
And  scrubbing, 

Sousing  each  sooty  frame  from  heels  to  head 
With  stiff,  strong  saponaceous  lather, 
And  pails  of  water — hottish  rather, 

But  not  so  boiling  as  to  turn  'em  red ! 

So  spoke  the  philanthropic  man 

Who  laid,  and  hatched,  and  nursed  the  plan  — 

And,  O !  to  view  its  glorious  consummation! 
The  brooms  and  mops, 
The  tubs  and  slops, 

The  baths  and  brushes  in  full  operation  ! 
To  see  each  Crow,  or  Jim,  or  John, 
Go  in  a  raven  and  come  out  a  swan ! 

While  fair  as  Cavendishes,  Vanes,  and  Russels, 
Black  Venus  rises  from  the  soapy  surge, 
And  all  the  little  Niggerlings  emerge 

As  lily-white  as  mussels. 

Sweet  was  the  vision  —  but,  alas ! 

However  in  prospectus  bright  and  sunny, 
To  bring  such  visional-)  scenes  to  pass 

One  thing  was  requisite,  and  that  was  —  money! 
Money,  that  pays  the  laundress  and  her  bills, 
For  socks,  and  collars,  shirts,  and  frills, 
Cravats,  and  kerchiefs — money,  without  which 
The  Negroes  must  remain  as  dark  as  pitch ; 

A  thing  to  make  all  Christians  sad  and  shivery, 
To  think  of  millions  of  immortal  souls 
1  dwelling  in  bodies  black  as  coals. 

And  living  —  so  to  speak  —  in  Satan's  Hvery ! 


A    BLACK    JOB.  411 

Money  —  the  root  of  evil  —  dross  and  stuff! 

But,  O  !  how  happy  ought  the  rich  to  feel, 
Whose  means  enabled  them  to  give  enough 

To  blanch  an  African  from  head  to  heel ! 
How  blessed  —  yea,  thrice  blessed  — to  subscribe 

Enough  to  scour  a  tribe  ! 
While  he  whose  fortune  was  at  best  a  brittle  one, 
Although  he  gave  but  pence,  how  sweet  to  know 
He  helped  to  bleach  a  Hottentot's  great  toe, 
Or  little  one ! 

Moved  by  this  logic,  or  appalled, 

To  persons  of  a  certain  turn  so  proper, 
The  money  came  when  called, 
In  silver,  gold,  and  copper, 

Presents  from  "  friends  to  blacks,"  or  foes  to  whites, 
"  Trifles,"  and  "  offerings,"  and  "  widow's  mites," 
Plump  legacies,  and  yearly  benefactions, 
With  other  gifts 
And  charitable  lifts. 
Printed  in  lists  and  quarterly  transactions. 
As  thus  —  Elisha  Brettel, 
An  iron  kettle. 
The  Dowager  Lady  Scannel, 
A  piece  of  flannel. 
Rebecca  Pope, 
A  bar  of  soup. 
The  Misses  llowels, 
Half-a-dozen  towels. 
The  Master  Push's 
Two  scrubbing-brushes. 
Mr.  T.  Groom, 
A  stable-broom, 
And  Mrs.  Grubb, 
A  tub. 


412  A    BLACK    JOB. 

Great  were  the  sums  collected  ! 

And  great  results  in  consequence  expected. 

But  somehow,  in  the  teeth  of  all  endeavor, 

According  to  reports 

At  yearly  courts, 
The  Blacks,  confound  them !  were  as  black  as  ever ! 

Yes !  spite  of  all  the  water  soused  aloft, 
Soap,  plain  and  mottled,  hard  and  soft, 
Soda  and  pearlash,  huckaback  and  .-and, 
Brooms,  brushes,  palm  of  hand, 
And  scourers  in  the  office  strong  and  clever, 

In  spite  of  all  the  tubbing,  rubbing,  scrubbing, 

The  routing  and  the  grubbing, 
The  Blacks,  confound  them  !  wen;  as  black  as  ever  ! 

In  fact,  in  his  perennial  speech, 
The  Chairman  owned  the  Niggers  did  not  bleach, 
As  he  had  hoped, 
From  being  washed  and  soaped, 
A  circumstance  he  named  with  grief  and  pity  ; 
But  still  he  had  the  happiness  to  say, 
For  self  and  the  Committee, 
By  persevering  in  the  present  way, 
And  scrubbing  at  the  Blacks  from  day  to  day, 
Although  he  could  not  promise  perfect  white, 
From  certain  symptoms  that  had  come  to  light, 
He  hoped  in  time  to  get  them  gray  ! 

Lulled  by  this  vague  assurance, 

The  friends  and  patrons  of  the  sable  tribe 

Continued  to  subscribe, 
And  waited,  waited  on  with  much  endurance  — 
Many  a  frugal  sister,  thrifty  daughter  — 
Many  a  stinted  widow,  pinching  mother  — 


A    BLACK    JOB.  413 

With  income  by  the  tax  made  somewhat,  shorter, 
Still  paid  implicitly  her  crown  per  quarter, 
Only  to  hear,  as  every  year  came  round, 
That  Mr.  Treasurer  had  spent  her  pound  ; 
And  as  she  loved  her  sable  brother, 
That  Mr.  Treasurer  must  have  another ! 

But,  spite  of  pounds  or  guineas, 

Instead  of  giving  any  hint 

Of  turning  to  a  neutral  tint, 
The  plaguy  Negroes  and  their  piccaninnies 
"Were  still  the  color  of  the  bird  that  caws  — 

Only  some  very  aged  souls, 
Showing  a  little  gray  upon  their  polls, 
Like  daws  ! 

However,  nothing  dashed 

Bv  such  repeated  failures,  or  abashed, 

The  Court  still  met  : — the  Chairman  and  Directors, 
The  Secretary,  good  at  pen  and  ink, 
The  worthy  Treasurer,  who  kept  the  chink, 
And  all  the  cash  Collectors  ; 

"With  hundreds  of  that  class,  so  kindly  credulous, 
Without  whose  help  no  charlatan  alive 
Or  Bubble  Company  could  hope  to  thrive, 

Or  busy  Chevalier,  however  sedulous  — 

Those  good  and  easy  innocents,  in  fact, 
Who,  willingly  receiving  chaff  for  corn, 

As  pointed  out  by  Butler's  tact, 

Still  find  a  secret  pleasure  in  the  act 
Of  being  plucked  and  shorn  ! 

However,  in  long  hundreds  there  they  were, 
Thronging  the  hot.  and  close,  and  dusty  court, 
35  * 


414  A    IiLACK    JOR. 

To  hear  once  more  addresses  from  the  Chair, 
And  regular  Report. 

Alas!  concluding  in  the  usual  strain, 

That  what  with  everlasting  wear  and  fear, 
The  scrubbing-hrushes  hadn't  got  a  hair  — 

The  brooms  —  mere  stumps —  would  never  serve  again -< 

The  soap  was  gone,  the  flannels  all  in  shreds, 
The  towels  worn  to  threads, 

The  tubs  and  pails  too  shattered  to  be  mended  — 
And  what  was  added  with  a  deal  of  pain, 
But  as  accounts  correctly  would  explain, 

Though  thirty  thousand  pounds  had  been  expended  — 
The  Blackamoors  had  still  been  washed  in  vain! 

"In  fact,  the  Negroes  were  as  black  as  ink, 
Yet,  still  as  the  Committee  dared  to  think, 
And  hoped  the  proposition  was  not  rash, 
A  rather  free  expenditure  of  cash  —  " 
But  ere  the  prospect  could  be  made  more  sunny  — 
Up  jumped  a  little,  lemon-colored  man, 
And  with  an  eager  stammer,  thus  began, 
In  angry  earnest,  though  it  sounded  funny  : 
"What!  More  subscriptions !  No  —  no  —  no,  —  not  1  ! 
You  have  had  time  —  time  —  time  enough  to  try! 
They  won't   come  white!   then    why  —  why  —  why  — 
why  — why, 
More  money  ?  " 

"  Why  ! "  said  the  Chairman,  with  an  accent  bland, 

And  gentle  waving  of  his  dexter  hand, 

"  Why  must  we  have  more  dross,  and  dirt,  and  dust, 

More  filthy  lucre,  in  a  word  more  gold  — 

The  why,  sir,  very  easily  is  told, 
Because  Humanity  declares  we  must ! 


ODE    TO    RAE    WILSON,    ESQUIRE.  4 1 0 

We've  scrubbed  the  Negroes  till  we've  nearly  killed  'em, 
And,  finding  that  we  cannot  wash  them  white, 
But  still  their  nigritude  offends  the  sight, 
We  mean  to  gild  'em!" 


ODE   TO   RAE   WILSON,  ESQUIRE. 

"  Close,  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 
And  weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice; 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  ted, 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise !"  — Coleridge 

"  It's  very  hard  them  kind  of  men 
Won't  let  a  body  be." — Old  Ballad. 

A  WANDERER,  Wilson,  from  my  native  land, 
Remote,  O  Rae,  from  godliness  and  thee, 
Where  rolls  between  us  the  eternal  sea, 
Besides  some  furlongs  of  a  foreign  sand,  — 
Beyond  the  broadest  Scotch  of  London  Wall ; 
Beyond  the  loudest  Saint  that  has  a  call ; 
Across  the  wavy  waste  between  us  stretched, 
A  friendly  missive  warns  me  of  a  stricture, 
Wherein  my  likeness  you  have  darkly  etched. 
And  though  I  have  not  seen  the  shadow  sketched, 
Thus  I  remark  prophetic  on  the  picture. 

I  guess  the  features  :  —  in  a  line  to  paint 

Their  moral  ugliness,  I'm  not  a  saint. 

Not  one  of  those  self-constituted  saints, 

Quacks  —  not  physicians  —  in  the  cure  of  souls, 

Censors  who  sniff  out  moral  taints, 

And  call  the  devil  over  his  own  coals  — 

Those  pseudo  Privy  Councillors  of  God, 

Who  write  down  judgments  with  a  pen  hard-nibbed; 


416  ODE    TO    RAE    WILSON,    ESQUIRE. 

Ushers  of  Beelzebub's  Black  Rod, 
Commending  sinners  not  to  ice  thick-ribbed, 
But  endless  flames,  to  scorch  them  like  flax, — 
Yet  sure  of  heaven  themselves,  as  if  they'd  cribbed 
The  impression  of  St.  Peter's  keys  In  wax  ! 

Of  such  a  character  no  single  trace 

Exists,  I  know,  in  my  fictitious  face  ; 

There  wants  a  certain  cast  about  the  eye  ; 

A  certain  lifting  of  the  nose's  tip  ; 

A  certain  curling-  of  the  nether  lip, 

In  scorn  of  all  that  is,  beneath  the  sky; 

In  brief,  it  is  an  aspect  deleterious, 

A  face  decidedly  not  serious, 

A  face  profane,  that  would  not  do  at  all 

To  make  a  face  at  Exeter  Hall, — 

That  Hall  where  bigots  rant,  and  cant,  and  pray, 

And  laud  each  other  lace  to  face, 

Till  every  farthing-candle  ray 

Conceives  itself  a  great  gas-light  of  grace ! 

Well !  —  be  the  graceless  lineaments  confest ! 
1  do  enjoy  this  bounteous  beauteous  earth; 

And  dote  upon  a  jest 
"Within  the  limits  of  becoming  mirth;"  — 
No  solemn  sanctimonious  face  I  pull, 
Nor  think  I'm  pious  when  I'm  only  bilious  — 
Nor  study  in  my  sanctum  supercilious 
To  frame  a  Sabbath  Bill  or  forge  a  Bull. 
I  pray  for  grace  —  repent  each  sinful  act  — 
Peruse,  but  underneath  the  rose,  my  Bible  ; 
And  love  my  neighbor,  far  too  well,  in  fact, 
To  call  and  twit  him  with  a  godly  tract 
That's  turned  by  application  to  a  libel. 
My  heart  ferments  not  with  the  bigot's  leaven, 


ODE    TO    ItAE    WILSON,    ESQUIRE.  417 

All  creeds  I  view  with  toleration  thorough, 
And  have  a  horror  of  regarding  heaven 
As  any  body's  rotten  borough. 

What  else  ?     No  part  I  take  in  party  fray, 

With  tropes  from  Billingsgate's  slang-whanging  Tartars, 

I  fear  no  Pope  —  and  let  great  Ernest  play 

At  Fox  and  Goose  with  Fox's  Martyrs  ! 

I  own  I  laugh  at  over-righteous  men, 

I  own  I  shake  ray  sides  at  ranters, 

And  treat  sham  Abr'am  saints  with  wicked  banters ; 

I  even  own,  that  there  are  times  —  but  then 

It's  when  I've  got  my  wine  —  I  say  d canters  ! 

I've  no  ambition  to  enact  the  spy 

On  fellow-souls,  a  spiritual  Pry  — 

Tis  said  that  people  ought  to  guard  their  noses 

Who  thrust  them  into  matters  none  of  theirs  : 

And,  though  no  delicacy  discomposes 

Your  saint,  yet  I  consider  faith  and  prayers 

Amongst  the  privatest  of  men's  affairs. 

I  do  not  hash  the  Gospel  in  my  books, 
And  thus  upon  the  public  mind  intrude  it, 
As  if  I  thought,  like  Otaheitan  cooks, 
No  food  was  fit  to  eat  till  I  had  chewed  it. 

On  Bibie  stilts  I  don't  affect  to  stalk  ; 

Nor  lard  with  Scripture  my  familiar  talk, — 

For  man  may  pious  texts  repeat, 
And  yet  religion  have  no  inward  seat  ; 
'Tis  not  so  plain  as  the  old  Hill  of  Howth, 
A  man  has  got  his  bellv  full  of  meal 
Because  he  talks  with  victuals  ill  his  mouth! 


Mere  verbiage,—  it  is  not  worth  a  carrot  ! 
Why,  Socrates  or  Plato  —  where 's  the  odds?  — 


US  ODE    TO    K.VE    WILSON,     ESQUIRE. 

Once  taught  a  Jay  to  supplicate  the  gods, 
And  made  a  Polly-theist  of  a  Parrot ! 

A  mere  professor,  spite  of  all  his  cant,  is 

Not  a  whit  better  than  a  Mantis.,— 
An  insect,  of  what  clime  I  can't  determine, 
That  lifts  its  paws  most  parson-like,  and  thence, 
By  simple  savages  —  through  sheer  pretence  — 
Is  reckoned  quite  a  saint  amongst  the  vermin. 
But  where's  the  reverence,  or  where  the  nous, 
To  ride  on  one's  religion  through  the  lobby, 
Whether  as  stalking-horse  or  hobby, 
To  show  its  pious  paces  to  "  the  house." 

I  honestly  confess  that  I  would  hinder 
The  Scottish  member's  legislative  riffs. 

That  spiritual  Pindar, 
Who  looks  on  erring  souls  as  straying  pigs, 
That  must  be  lashed  by  law,  wherever  found, 
And  driven  to  church  as  to  the  parish  pound. 
I  do  confess,  without  reserve  or  wheedle, 
I  view  that  grovelling  idea  as  one 
Worthy  some  parish  clerk's  ambitious  son, 
A  charity-boy  who  longs  to  be  a  beadle. 
On  such  a  vital  topic  sure  'tis  odd 
How  much  a  man  can  differ  from  his  neighbor; 
One  wishes  worship  freely  given  to  God, 
Another  wants  to  make  it  statute-labor  — 
The  broad  distinction  in  a  line  to  draw, 
As  means  to  lead  us  to  the  skies  above, 
You  say —  Sir  Andrew  and  his  love  of  law, 
And  I — the  Saviour  with  his  law  of  love. 

Spontaneously  to  God  should  tend  the  soul, 
Like  the  magnetic  needle  to  the  Pole  ; 


ODE    TO    RAE    WILSON,    ESQUIRE.  419 

But  what  were  that  intrinsic  virtue  worth, 

Suppose  some  fellow,  with  more  zeal  than  knowledge, 

Fresh  from  St.  Andrew's  college, 
Should  nail  the  conscious  needle  to  the  north  ? 
I  do  confess  that  I  abhor  and  shrink 
From  schemes,  with  a  religious  willy-nilly, 
That  frown  upon  St.  Giles's  sins,  but  blink 
The  peccadilloes  of  all  Piccadilly  — 
My  soul  revolts  at  such  bare  hypocrisy, 
And  will  not,  dare  not,  fancy  in  accord 
The  Lord  of  Hosts  with  an  exclusive  lord 
Of  this  world's  aristocracy. 
It  will  not  own  a  notion  so  unholy, 
As  thinking  that  the  rich  by  easy  trips 
May  go  to  heaven,  whereas  the  poor  and  lowly 
Must  work  their  passage,  as  they  do  in  ships. 

One  place  there  is  —  beneath  the  burial-sod, 
Where  all  mankind  are  equalized  by  death  ; 
Another  place  there  is  —  the  Fane  of  God, 
Where  all  are  equal  who  draw  living  breath ;  — 
Juggle  who  will  elsewhere  with  his  own  soul, 
Playing  the  Judas  with  a  temporal  dole  — 
He  who  can  come  beneath  that  awful  cope, 
In  the  dread  presence  of  a  Maker  just, 
Who  metes  to  every  pinch  of  human  dust 
One  even  measure  of  immortal  hope  — 
He  who  can  stand  within  th.it  holy  door, 
With  soul  unbowed  by  that  pure  spirit-level, 
And  frame  unequal  laws  for  rich  and  poor, — 
Might  sit  tor  Hell,  and  represent  the  Devil! 

Such  are  the  solemn  sentiments,  ()  Rae, 
In  your  last  journey-work,  perchance,  you  ravage, 
Seeming,  but  in  more  courtly  terms,  to  say 
I'm  but  a  heedless,  creedless,  godless,  savage; 


420  ODE    TO    KAE    WILSON,    ESQUIRE. 

A  very  Guy,  deserving  fire  and  fagots, — 

A  scoffer,  always  on  the  grin, 
And  sadly  given  to  the  mortal  sin 
Of  liking  Mawworms  less  than  merry  maggots ! 

The  humble  records  of  my  life  to  search, 

I  have  not  herded  with  mere  pagan  beasts  ; 

But  sometimes  I  have  "sat  at  good  men's  feasts," 

And  I  have  been  "  where  bells  have  knolled  to  church." 

Dear  bells  !  how  sweet  the  sound  of  village  bells 

When  on  the  undulating  air  they  swim ! 

Now  loud  as  welcomes  !  faint,  now,  as  farewells  ! 

And  trembling  all  about  the  breezy  dells, 

As  fluttered  by  the  wings  of  Cherubim. 

Meanwhile  the  bees  are  chanting  a  low  hymn  ; 

And  lost  to  sight  the  ecstatic  lark  above 

Sings,  like  a  soul  beatified,  of  love, 

With,  now  and  then,  the  coo  of  the  wild  pigeon  :  — 

O  pagans,  heathens,  infidels,  and  doubters ! 

If  such  sweet  sounds  can't  woo  you  to  religion. 

Will  the  harsh  voices  of  church  cads  and  toulers  ? 

A  man  may  cry  Church  !  Church !  at  every  word, 
With  no  more  piety  than  other  people  — 
A  daw's  not  reckoned  a  religious  bird 
Because  it  keeps  a->cawing  from  a  steeple ; 
The  Temple  is  a  good,  a  holy  place, 
But  quacking  only  gives  it  an  ill  savor  ; 
While  saintly  mountebanks  the  porch  disgrace, 
And  bring  religion's  self  into  disfavor ! 

Behold  yon  servitor  of  God  and  Mammon, 
Who,  binding  up  his  Bible  with  his  ledger, 
Blends  Gospel  texts  with  trading  gammon, 
A  black-leg  saint,  a  spiritual  hedger, 


ODE    TO    li.VE    WILSON,    ESQUIRE.  421 

Who  backs  his  rigid  Sabbath,  so  to  speak, 
Against  the  wicked  remnant  of  the  week, 
A  saving  bet  against  his  sinful  bias  — 
"Rogue  that  I  am,"  he  whispers  to  himself, 
"  I  lie  —  I  cheat  —  do  any  thing  for  pelf, 
But  who  on  earth  can  say  I  am  not  pious !  " 

In  proof  how  over-righteousness  reacts, 

Accept  an  anecdote  well  based  on  facts; 

On  Sunday  morning  —  (at  the  day  don't  fret)  — 

In  riding  with  a  friend  to  Ponder's  End, 

Outside  the  stage,  we  happened  to  commend 

A  certain  mansion  that  we  saw  To  Let. 

"  Ay,"  cried  our  coachman,  with  our  talk  to  grapple, 

''You're  right!  no  house  along  the  road  comes  nigh  it 

Twas  built  by  the  same  man  as  built  yon  chapel, 

And  master  wanted  once  to  buy  it, — 
But  t'other  driv  the  bargain  much  too  hard,  — 

He  axed  sure-///  a  sum  prodigious  ! 
But  being  so  particular  religious, 
"Why,  that,  you  see,  put  master  on  his  guard ! " 

Church  is  "  a  little  heaven  below. 

I  have  been  there,  and  still  would  go,"  — 
Yet  I  am  none  of  those  who  think  it  odd 

A  man  can  pray  unbidden  from  the  cassock, 

And,  passing  by  the  customary  hassock, 
Kneel  down  remote  upon  the  simple  sod, 
And  sue  in  formS  pau]  eris  to  God. 

A-  for  the  rest,  —  intolerant  to  none, 
Whatever  shape  the  pious  rite  may  bear, 
Even  the  pom-  pagan's  homage  to  the  sun 
I  would  not  harshly  scorn,  lest  even  there 
1  spurned  some  elements  of  Christian  prayer  — 
An  aim,  though  erring,  at  a  "world  ayont  " — - 
36 


422  ODE   TO    IIAE    WILSON,    ESQUIRE. 

Acknowledgment  of  good  —  of  man's  futility, 
A  sense  of  need,  and  weakness,  and  indeed 
That  very  thing  so  many  Christians  want  — 

Humility. 

Such,  unto  Papists,  Jews,  or  Turbaned  Turks, 
Such  is  my  spirit  —  (I  don't  mean  my  wraith  !) 
Such,  may  it  please  you,  is  my  humble  faith ; 
I  know,  full  well,  you  do  not  like  my  works! 

I  have  not  sought,  'tis  true,  the  Holy  Land, 
As  full  of  texts  as  Cuddie  Hedrigg's  mother, 

The  Bible  in  one  hand, 
And  my  own  commonplace-book  in  the  other  — 
But  you  have  been  to  Palestine  —  alas  ! 
Some  minds  improve  by  travel  —  others,  rather, 

Resemble  copper  wire  or  brass, 
Which  gets  the  narrower  by  going  further ! 

Worthless  are  all  such  pilgrimages  —  very  ! 
If  Palmers  at  the  Holy  Tomb  contrive 
The  human  heats  and  rancor  to  revive 
That  at  the  Sepulchre  they  ought  to  bury. 
A  sorry  sight  it  is  to  rest  the  eye  on, 
To  see  a  Christian  creature  graze  at  Sion, 
Then  homeward,  of  the  saintly  pasture  full, 
Rush  bellowing,  and  breathing  fire  and  smoke, 
At  crippled  Papistry  to  butt  and  poke, 
Exactly  as  a  skittish  Scottish  bull 
Haunts  an  old  woman  in  a  scarlet  cloak. 

Why  leave  a  serious,  moral,  pious  home, 
Scotland,  renowned  for  sanctity  of  old, 
Far  distant  Catholics  to  rate  and  scold 
For  —  doing  as  the  Romans  do  at  Rome  ? 


ODE    TO    E.AE    WILSOX,    ESQUIRE.  423 

With  such  a  bristling  spirit  wherefore  quit 
The  Land  of  Cakes  for  any  land  of  wafers, 
About  the  graceless  images  to  flit, 
And  buzz  and  chafe  importunate  as  chafers, 
Longing  to  carve  the  carvers  to  Scotch  collops  ?  — 
People  who  hold  such  absolute  opinions 
Should  stay  at  home  in  Protestant  dominions, 
Not  travel  like  male  Mrs.  Trollopes. 

Gifted  with  noble  tendency  to  climb, 
Yet  weak  at  the  same  time, 
Faith  is  a  kind  of  parasitic  plant, 
That  grasps  the  nearest  stem  with  tendril  rings  ; 
And  as  the  climate  and  the  soil  may  grant, 
So  is  the  sort  of  tree  to  which  it  clings. 
Consider,  then,  before,  like  Hurlothrumbo, 
You  aim  your  club  at  any  creed  on  earth, 
That,  by  the  simple  accident  of  birth, 
You  might  have  been  High  Priest  to  Mumbo  Jumbo. 

For  me  —  through  heathen  ignorance  perchance, 

Not  having  knelt  in  Palestine,  —  1  feel 

None  of  that  griflinish  excess  of  zeal 

Some  travellers  would  blaze  with  here  in  France. 

Dolls  I  can  see  in  Virgin-like  array, 

Nor  for  a  scuffle  with  the  idols  hanker 

Like  crazy  Quixotte  at  the  puppet's  play, 

11'  their  "offence  be  rank,"  should  mine  be  rancor'? 

Mild  light,  and  by  degrees,  should  be  the  plan 
To  cure  the  dark  and  erring  mind  ; 
But  who  would  rush  at  a  benighted  man, 
And  give  him  two  black  eyes  for  being  blind? 

Suppose  the  tender  but  luxuriant  hop 
Around  a  cankered  stem  should  twine, 


421  ODE   TO    KAE    WILSON,    ESQUIRE. 

What  Kentish  boor  would  tear  away  the  prop 
So  roughly  as  to  wound,  nay,  kill  the  bine  ? 

The  images,  'tis  true,  are  strangely  dressed, 

With  gauds  and  toys  extremely  out  of  season  ; 

The  carving  nothing  of  the  very  best, 

The  whole  repugnant  to  the  eye  of  Reason, 

Shocking  to  Taste,  and  to  Fine  Arts  a  treason  — 

Yet  ne'er  o'erlook  in  bigotry  of  sect 

One  truly  Catholic,  one  common  form, 

At  which  unchecked 
All  Christian  hearts  may  kindle  or  keep  warm. 

Say,  was  it  to  my  spirit's  gain  or  loss, 

One  bright  and  balmy  morning,  as  I  went 

From  Liege's  lovely  environs  to  Ghent, 

If  hard  by  the  wayside  I  found  a  cross, 

That  made  me  breathe  a  prayer  upon  the  spot  — 

While  Nature  of  herself,  as  if  to  trace 

The  emblem's  use,  had  trailed  around  its  base 

The  blue  significant  Forget-Me-Not  ? 

Methought,  the  claims  of  Charity  to  urge 

More  forcibly  along  with  Faith  and  Hope, 

The  pious  choice  had  pitched  upon  the  verge 

Of  a  delicious  slope, 
Giving  the  eye  much  variegated  scope  !  — 
"  Look  round,"  it  whispered,  "  on  that  prospect  rare, 
Those  vales  so  verdant,  and  those  hills  so  blue  ; 
Enjoy  the  sunny  world,  so  fresh  and  fair, 
But "  —  (how  the  simple  legend  pierced  me  through !) 

"Priez  pouk  iis  Malheureux." 

With  sweel  kind  natures,  as  in  honeyed  cells, 

Religion  lives,  and  fe<  1-  herself  at  home; 

lint  onlj  on  a  formal  vii  it  dwells 

Where  v,  :::j;    i     •<    cl  of  !  ees  have  formed  the  comb. 


ODE    TO    RA.E    WILSON,    ESQUIRE.  42I> 

Shun  pride,  0  Rae  !  —  whatever  sort  beside 
You  take  in  lieu,  shun  spiritual  pride ! 
A  pride  there  is  of  rank  —  a  pride  of  birth, 
A  pride  of  learning,  and  a  pride  of  purse, 
A  London  pride  —  in  short,  there  be  on  earth 
A  host  of  prides,  some  better  and  some  worse ; 
But  of  all  prides,  since  Lucifer's  attaint, 
The  proudest  swells  a  self-elected  Saint. 

To  picture  that  cold  pride  so  harsh  and  hard, 
Fancy  a  peacock  in  a  poultry-yard. 
Behold  him  in  conceited  circles  sail, 
Strutting  and  dancing,  and  now  planted  stiff, 
In  all  his  pomp  of  pageantry,  as  if 
He  felt  "  the  eyes  of  Europe"  on  his  tail ! 
As  for  the  humble  breed  retained  by  man, 
He  scorns  the  whole  domestic  clan  — 

He  bows,  he  bridles, 

He  wheels,  he  sidles, 
As  last,  with  stately  dodgings  in  a  corner, 
He  pens  a  simple  russet  hen,  to  scorn  hei 
Full  in  the  blaze  of  his  resplendent  fan! 

"  Look  here,''  he  cries,  (to  give  him  word»,j 

"Thou  feathered  clay,  —  thou  scum  of  birds  !  " 
Flirting  the  rustling  plumage  in  her  eves, — 

"  Look  here,  thou  vile  predestined  sinner, 

Doomed  to  be  roasted  for  a  dinner, 
Behold  these  lovely  variegated  dyes  ! 
These  are  the  rainbow  colors  of  the  skies, 
That  heaven  lias  shed  upon  me  con  amort  — 
A  Bird  of  Paradise?  —  a  pretty  story! 
/am  that  Saintly  Fowl,  thou  paltry  chick! 

Look  at  my  crown  of  glory! 
Ihou  dingy,  dirty,  dabbled,  draggled  j i  11 !  " 
oo 


42 G  ODE    TO    RA.K    -WILSON,    ESQUIRE. 

And  oft  ^oes  Partlett,  wriggling  from  a  kick, 
With  blwding  scalp  laid  open  by  his  bill! 

That  little  simile  exactly  paints 
How  sinners  are  despised  by  saints. 
By  saints  :  —  the  Hypocrites  that  ope  heaven's  door 
Obsequious  to  the  sinful  man  of  riches  — 
But  put  the  wicked,  naked,  bare-legged  poor, 
In  parish  stocks,  instead  of  breeches. 

The  Saints  ?  —  the  Bigots  that  in  public  spout, 
Spread  phespnorus  of  zeal  on  scraps  of  fustian, 
And  go  like  walking  "  Lucifers  "  about, 
Mere  living  bundles  of  combustion. 

The  Saints!  —  tne  aping  Fanatics  that  talk 
All  cant  and  rant  and  rhapsodies  high  flown  — 

That  bid  you  balk 

A  Sunuay  walk, 
And  shun  God's  work  as  you  should  shun  your  own. 

The  Saints  !  —  the  Formalists,  the  extra  pious, 
Who  think  the  mortal  husk  can  save  the  soul, 
By  trundling,  witn  a  mere  mechanic  bias, 
To  church,  just  likt  a  lignum-vita-  bowl ! 

The  Saints !  —  the  Pharisees,  whose  beadle  stands 

Beside  a  stern  coercive  kirk, 

A  piece  of  human  mason-work, 
Calling  all  sermons  contrabands, 
In  that  great  Temple  that's  not  made  with  hands ! 

Thrice  blessed,  rather,  is  the  man  with  whom 
The  gracious  prodijrality  of  nature, 
The  balm,  the  bliss,  the  beauty,  and  the  bloom, 
The  bounteous  providence  in  every  feature, 
Recall  the  good  (real or  to  his  creature, 
Making  all  earth  a  fane,  all  heaven  its  dome ! 


ODE    TO    RAE    "WILSON,    ESQUIBE.  427 

To  Ids  tuned  spirit  the  wild  heather-bells 

Ring  Sabbath  knells  ; 
The  jubilate  of  the  soaring  lark 

Is  chant  of  clerk  ; 
For  Choir,  the  thrush  and  the  gregarious  linnet ; 
The  sod's  a  cushion  for  his  pious  want ; 
And,  consecrated  by  the  heaven  within  it, 
The  sky-blue  pool,  a  font. 
Each  cloud-capped  mountain  is  a  holy  altar ; 

An  organ  breathes  in  every  grove ; 

And  the  full  heart's  a  Psalter, 
Rich  in  deep  hymns  of  gratitude  and  love  ! 

Sufficiently  by  stem  necessitarians 

Poor  Nature,  with  her  face  begrimed  by  dust, 

Is  stoked,  coked,  smoked,  and  almost  choked ;  bv*  must 

Religion  have  its  own  Utilitarians, 

Labelled  with  evangelical  phylacteries, 

To  make  the  road  to  heaven  a  railway  trust, 

And  churches  —  that's  the  naked  fact  —  mere  fac/"",'«-s  ? 

O  !  simply  open  wide  the  temple  door, 
And  let  the  solemn,  swelling  organ  greet, 

With  Voluntaries  meet, 
The  willing  advent  of  the  rich  and  poor! 
And  while  to  God  the  loud  Hosannas  soar, 
With  rich  vibrations  from  the  vocal  throng  — 
From  quiet,  shades  that  to  the  woods  belong, 

And  brooks  with  music  of  their  own, 
Voices  may  come  to  swell  the  choral  song 
With  notes  of  praise  they  learned  in  musings  lone' 

How  strange  it  is,  while  on  all  vital  questions, 

That  occupy  the  J  louse  and  public  mind, 

We  always  meet  with  some  humane  suggestions 


428  0DE    T0    KAE    WILSON,    ESQUIRE. 

Of  gentle  measures  of  a  healing  kind, 
Instead  of  harsh  severity  and  vigor, 
The  saint  alone  his  preference  retains 
For  bills  of  penalties  and  pains, 
And  marks  his  narrow  eode  with  legal  rigor! 
Why  shun,  as  worthless  of  affiliation, 
What  men  of  all  political  persuasion 
Extol  —  and  even  use  upon  occasion  — 
That  Christian  principle,  conciliation  ? 
But  possibly  the  men  who  make  such  fuss 
With  Sunday  pippins  and  old  Trots  infirm, 
Attach  some  other  meaning  to  the  term, 
As  thus  : 

One  market  morning,  in  my  usual  rambles, 
Passing  along  Whitechapel's  ancient  shambles, 
Where  meat  was  hung  in  many  a  joint  and  quarter, 
I  had  to  halt  a  while,  like  other  folks, 

To  let  a  killing  butcher  coax 
A  score  of  lambs  and  fatted  sheep  to  slaughter. 
A  sturdy  man  he  looked  to  fell  an  ox, 
Bull-fronted,  ruddy,  with  a  formal  streak 
Of  well-greased  hair  down  either  cheek, 
As  if  he  dee-dashed-dee'd  some  other  flocks 
Besides  those  woolly-headed  stubborn  blocks 
That  stood  before  him,  in  vexatious  huddle  — 
Poor  little  lambs,  with  bleating  wethers  grouped, 
While,  now  and  then,  a  thirsty  creature  stooped 
And  meekly  snuffed,  but  did  not  taste  the  puddle. 

Fierce  barked  the  dog,  and  many  a  blow  was  dealt, 
That  loin,  and  chump,  and  scrag,  and  saddle  felt, 
Yet  still,  that  fatal  step  they  all  declined  it. — 
And  shunned  the  tainted  door  as  if  they  smelt 
Onions,  mint-sauce,  and  lemon-juice  beliind  it. 


ODE    TO    RAE    WILSON,    ESCiUIKE.  429 

At  last  there  came  a  pause  of  brutal  force; 

The  cur  was  silent,  for  his  jaws  were  full 

Of  tangled  locks  of  tarry  wool ; 
The  man  had  whooped  and  bellowed  till  dead  hoarse, 
The  time  was  ripe  for  mild  expostulation, 
And  thus  it  stammered  from  a  stander-by  — 
"  Zounds  !  —  my  good  fellow,  —  it  quite  makes  me  - —  why 
It  really  —  my  dear  fellow  —  do  just  try 
Conciliation  ! " 

Stringing  his  nerves  like  flint, 
The  sturdy  butcher  seized  upon  the  hint,  — 
At  least  he  seized  upon  the  foremost  wether,  — 
And  hugged  and  lugged  and  tugged  him  neck  and  crop 
Just  nolens  volens  through  the  open  shop  — 
If  tails  come  off  he  didn't  care  a  feather,  — 
Then  walking  to  the  door,  and  smiling  grim, 
He  rubbed  his  forehead  and  his  sleeve  together  — 

"  There  !  —  I've  conciliated  him  !  " 

Again  —  good-hunioredly  to  end  our  quarrel  — 
(Good  humor  should  prevail !) 
I'll  fit  you  with  a  tale 
Whereto  is  tied  a  moral. 

Once  on  a  time  a  certain  English  lass 

AVas  seized  with  symptoms  of  such  deep  decline, 

Cough,  hectic  Hushes,  every  evil  sign, 

Thai,  as  their  wont  is  at  such  desperate  pass, 

The  doctors  gave  her  over  —  to  an  ass. 

Accordingly,  the  grisly  Shade  to  bilk, 

Each  morn  the  patient  quailed  a  frothy  bowl 

Of  asinine  new  milk, 
Robbing  a  shaggy  suckling  of  a  foal 


430  A   TABLE    OP    ERRATA.. 

Which  got  proportionally  spare  and  skinny  — 
Meanwhile  the  neighbors  cried  "Poor  Mary  Ann! 

She  can't  get  over  it !  she  never  can  !" 
When,  lo !  to  prove  each  prophet  was  a  ninny, 
The  one  that  died  was  the  poor  wet-nurse  Jenny. 

To  aggravate  the  case, 
There  were  but  two  grown  donkeys  in  the  place ; 
And,  most  unluckily  for  Eve's  sick  daughter, 
The  other  long-eared  creature  was  a  male, 
Who  never  in  his  life  had  given  a  pail 

Of  milk,  or  even  chalk  and  water. 
No  matter  :  at  the  usual  hour  of  eight 
Down  trots  a  donkey  to  the  wicket-gate, 
With  Mister  Simon  Gubbins  on  his  back,— 
"Your  sarvant,  Miss, —  a  werry  spring-like  day, — 
Bad  time  for  hasses,  though!  good  lack!  good  lack! 
Jenny  be  dead,  Miss,  —  but  1'ze  brought  ye  Jack,  — 
He  doesn't  give  no  milk  —  but  he  can  bray-" 

So  runs  the  story, 

And,  in  vain  self-glory, 
Some  Saints  would  sneer  at  Gubbins  for  hi?  blindness; 
But  what  the  better  are  their  pious  saws 
To  ailing  souls,  than  dry  hee-haws, 
Without  the  milk  of  human  kindness  ? 


A  TABLE   OF   ERRATA. 

{Hostess  loquitur.) 

Well  !  thanks  be  to  Heaven, 
The  summons  is  given  ; 
It's  only  gone  seven, 

And  should  have  been  six ; 


J_ 


A    TABLE    OF    ERRATA.  431 

There's  fine  overdoing 
In  roasting  and  stewing, 
And  victuals  past  chewing 
To  rags  and  to  sticks ! 

How  dreadfully  chilly ! 
I  shake,  willy-nilly ; 
That  John  is  so  silly, 

And  never  will  learn 
This  plate  is  a  cold  one, 
That  cloth  is  an  old  one,  — 
I  wish  they  had  told  one 

The  lamp  wouldn't  hurn. 

Now  then  for  some  hlunder 
For  nerves  to  sink  under  : 
I  never  shall  wonder, 

Whatever  goes  ill. 
That  fish  is  a  riddle ! 
It's  broke  in  the  middle. 
A  Turbot !  a  fiddle  ! 

It's  only  a  Brill ! 

It's  quite  over-boiled  too, 
The  butter  is  oiled  too, 
The  soap  is  all  spoiled  too, 

It's  nothing  but  slop. 
The  smelts  looking  Hubby, 
The  soles  are  as  dabby, 
It  all  is  so  shabby 

That  Cook  shall  not  stop ! 

As  sure  as  the  morning, 
She  gets  a  mouth's  warning, 
My  orders  for  scorning  — 


There's  nothing  to  eat ! 


432  A    TABLE    OF    ERRATA. 

I  hear  such  a  rushing, 

I  fee]  such  a  flushing, 

I  know  I  am  blushing 

As  red  as  a  beet ! 

Friends  flatter  and  flatter, 
I  wish  they  would  chatter ; 
What  can  be  the  matter 

That  nothing  comes  next? 
How  very  unpleasant ! 
Lord  !  there  is  the  pheasant  1 
Not  wanted  at  present, 

I'm  born  to  be  vext ! 

The  pudding  brought  on  too, 

And  aiming  at  ton  too  ! 
And  where  is  that  John  too, 

The  plague  that  he  is  ? 
He's  off  on  some  ramble  : 
And  there  is  Miss  Campbeii, 
Enjoying  the  scramble, 

Detestable  Quiz ! 

The  veal  they  all  eye  it, 
But  no  one  will  try  it, 
An  Ogre  would  shy  it 

So  rudely  as  that ! 
And  as  for  the  mutton, 
The  cold  dish  it's  put  on 
Converts  to  a  button 

Each  drop  of  the  fat. 

The  beef  without  mustard ! 
My  fate's  to  be  flustered, 
And  there  comes  the  custard 
To  eat  with  the  hare  ! 


A   TABLE    OF    ERRATA.  433 

Such  flesh,  fowl,  and  fishing, 
Such  waiting  and  dishing, 
I  cannot  help  wishing 
A  woman  might  swear  ! 

0  dear  !  did  I  ever  — 
But  no,  I  did  never  — 
"Well,  come,  that  is  clever, 

To  send  up  the  brawn  ! 
That  Cook,  I  could  scold  her, 
Gets  worse  as  she's  older  ; 

1  wonder  who  told  her 

That  woodcocks  are  drawn ! 

It's  really  audacious ! 
I  cannot  look  gracious  ! 
Lord  help  the  voracious 

That  came  for  a  cram  ! 
There's  Alderman  Fuller 
Gets  duller  and  duller. 
Those  fowls,  by  the  color, 

Were  boiled  with  the  ham  I 

Well,  where  is  the  curry  ? 

I'm  all  in  a  flurry. 

No,  Cook's  in  no  hurry  — ■ 

A  stoppage  again  ! 
And  John  makes  it  wider, 
A  pretty  provider ! 
Bj  bringing  up  cider 

Instead  of  champagne ! 

My  troubles  come  faster  ! 
There's  my  lord  and  master 
Detects  each  disaster. 

And  hardly  can  sit  : 

37 


434  A    ROW    AT   THE    OXFORD    ARMS. 

lie  cannot  help  seeing, 
All  things  disagreeing; 
If  he  begins  d — ing 
I'm  off  in  a  fit ! 

This  cooking?  —  it's  messing! 
The  spinach  wants  pressing, 
And  salads  in  dressing 

Arc  best  with  good  eggs. 
And  John  —  yes,  already  — 
Has  had  something  heady, 
That  makes  him  unsteady 

In  keeping  his  legs. 

How  shall  I  get  through  it  ? 

I  never  can  do  it, 

I'm  quite  looking  to  it, 

To  sink  by  and  by. 
O  !  would  I  were  dead  now, 
Or  up  in  my  bed  now, 
To  cover  my  head  now, 

And  have  a  good  cry  ! 


A   ROW   AT  THE   OXFORD   ARMS. 

"Glorious  Apollo  from  on  liis-h  behold  us."' — Old  Sono. 

As  latterly  I  chanced  to  pass 
A  Public  House,  from  which,  alas  ! 
The  Arms  of  Oxford  dangle  ! 
My  ear  was  startled  by  a  din, 
That  made  me  tremble  in  my  skin, 
A  dreadful  hubbub  from  within, 
Of  voices  in  u  wrangle  — 


A  HOW  AT  THE  OXFORD  ARMS.  435 

Voices  loud,  and  voices  high, 

With  now  and  then  a  party-cry, 

Such  as  used  in  times  gone  by 

To  scare  the  British  border  : 

When  foes  from  North  and  South  of  Tweed — 

Neighbors  —  and  of  Christian  creed  — 

Met  in  hate  to  fight  and  bleed, 

Upsetting  Social  Order. 

Surprised,  I  turned  me  to  the  crowd, 

Attracted  by  that  tumult  loud, 

And  asked  a  gazer,  beetle-browed, 

The  cause  of  such  disquiet. 

When,  lo  !  the  solemn-looking  man 

First  shook  his  head  on  Burleigh's  plan, 

And  then,  with  fluent  tongue,  began 

His  version  of  the  riot : 

A  row!  —  why,  yes,  —  a  pretty  row,  you   might  heat 

from  tbis  to  Garmany, 
And  what  is  worse,  it's  all  got  up  among  the  Sons  of 

Harmony, 
The  more's  the  shame  for  them  as  used  to  be  in  time  and 

tune, 
And  all  unite  in  chorus  like  the  singing-birds  in  June  ! 
All!    many  a  pleasant  chant  I've  heard  in  passing  hero 

along, 
When  Swiveller  was  President  a-knocking  down  a  song; 
But  Dick's  resigned  the  post,  you  see,  and  all  them  shouts 

ami  hollers 
Is   'cause   two    other   candidates,   some   sort   of  larned 

scholars, 
Are  squabbling  to  be  Chairman  of  the  Glorious  Apollers! 

Lord  knows  their  names,  I'm  sure  I  don't,  no  more  than 
any  yokel, 


43G  A  ROW  AT  THE  OXFORD  ARMS. 

But  I  never  heard  of  either  as  connected  with  the  voeaV, 
Nay,  some  do  say,  although  of  course  the  public  rumoJ 

varies, 
They've  no  more  warble  in  'em  than  a  pair  of  hen  ca- 
naries ; 
Though  that  might  pass  if  they  were  dabs  at  t'other  sort 

•     of  thing, 
For  a  man  may  make  a  song,  you  know,  although  he 

cannot  sing ; 
But,  lork!  it's  many  folks' belief  they're  only  good  at 

prosing, 
For  Catnach  swears  he  never  saw  a  verse  of  their  com- 
posing ; 
And  when  a  piece  of  poetry  has  stood  its  public  trials, 
If  pop'lar,  it  gets  printed  off  at  once  in  Seven  Dials, 
And  then  about  all  sorts  of  streets,  by  every  little  monkey, 
It's  chanted  like  the  "  Dog's  Meat  Man,"  or  "  If  I  had  a 

Donkey." 
Whereas,   as  Mr.   Catnach   says,  and  not  a  bad  judge 

neither, 
No  ballad  worth  a  ha'penny  has  ever  come  from  either, 
And  him  as  writ  "  Jim   Crow,"  he  says,  and  got  such 

lots  of  dollars, 
Would  make  a  better  Chairman  for  the  Glorious  Apollcrs. 

Howsomever  that's  the  meaning  of  the  squabble  that 

arouses 
This  neighborhood,  and  quite  disturbs  all  decent  Heads 

of  Houses, 
Who  want  to  have  their  dinners  and  their  parties,  as  is 

reason, 
In  Christian  peace  and  charity  according  to  the  season. 
But  from  Number  Thirty-Nine,  since  this  electioneering 

job, 
Ay,  as  far  as  Number  Ninety,  there's  an  everlasting  mob; 


A    HOW    AT    THE    OXFORD    ARMS.  .[',)~j 

Till  the  thing  is  quite  a  nuisance,  for  no  creature  passes  by, 

But  he  gets  a  card,  a  pamphlet,  or  a  summut  in  his  eye ; 

And  a  pretty  noise  there  is  !  —  what  with  canvassers  and 
spouters, 

For  in  course  each  side  is  furnished  with  its  backers  and 
its  touters  ; 

And  surely  among  the  Clergy  to  such  pitches  it  is  car- 
ried, 

You  can  hardly  find  a  Parson  to  get  buried  or  get  married ; 

Or  supposing  any  accident  that  suddenly  alarms, 

If  you're  dying  for  a  surgeon,  you  must  fetch  him  from 
the  "Arms:" 

While  the  Schoolmasters  and  Tooters  are  neglecting  of 
their  scholars, 

To  write  about  a  Chairman  for  the  Glorious  Apollers. 

Well,  that,  sir,  is  the  racket ;  and  the  more  the  sin  and 

shame 
Of  them   that  help    to   stir  it   up,   and   propagate  the 

same ; 
Instead  of  vocal  ditties,  and  the  social  flowing  cup,  — ■ 
But  the)  '11  be  the  1  louse's  ruin,  or  the  shutting  of  it  up,  -v. 
With  their  riots  and  their  hubbubs,  like  a  garden  full  of 

hears, 
While  they've  damaged   many  articles,  and    broken  lots 

of  squares, 
And  kept  their  noble  Club   Room  in  a  perfect  dust  and 

smother, 

By  throwing  Morning  Heralds,  Times,  and  Standards 

at  each  other  ; 

Not  to  name  the  ugly  language  Oemmcn  oughtn't  to 

repeat, 

And  the   names   thej  call   each  other— for  I've   heard 

em  in  the  street  — 
157* 


438  A    K0AV    AT    THK    OXFORD    AltMS. 

Such   as  Traitors,  Guys,  and   Judases,  and  Vipers,  and 

what  not, 
For  Pasley  and  his  divers  an't  so  blowing-up  a  lot. 
And   then   such    awful    swearing!  —  for  there's   one  of 

them  that  cusses 
Enough  to   shock    the   cads    that   hang  on    opposition 

'busses  ; 
For  he  cusses  every  member  that's  agin  him  at  the  poll, 
As  I  wouldn't  cuss  a  donkey,  though  it  hasn't  got  a  soul ; 
And  he   cusses  all  their  families,  Jack,  Harry,  Bob,  or 

Jim, 
To  the  babby  in  the  cradle,  if  they  don't  agree  with  him. 
Whereby,  although   as   yet  they  have  not  took  to  use 

their  fives, 
Or,  according  as  the  fashion  is,  to  sticking  with  their 

knives, 
I'm  bound  there'll  be  some  milling  yet,  and  shakings  by 

the  collars, 
Afore  they  choose  a  Chairman  for  the  Glorious  Apollers! 

To  be  sure,  it  is  a  pity  to  lie  blowing  such  a  squall, 
Instead  of  clouds,  and  every  man  his  song,  and  then  his 

call  — 
And  as  if  there  was  n't  Whigs  enough  and  Tories  to  fall 

out, 
Besides  politics  in  plenty  for  our  splits  to  be  about  — 
Why,  a  corn-field  is  sufficient,  sir,  as  anybody  knows. 
For  to  furnish  them  in  plenty  who  are  fond  of  picking 

crows  — 
Not  to  name  the  Maynooth  Catholics,  and  other  Irish 

stews, 
To  agitate  society  and  loosen  all  its  screws ; 
And  which  all   may  be   agreeable   and  proper  to  their 

spheres,  — 
But  it's  not  the  thing  for  musicals  to  set  us  by  the  ears. 


X    ROW    AT    THE    OXFORD    /RMS.  439 

And  as  to  College  laming,  my  opinion  for  to  broach, 
And  I've  had  it  from  my  cousin,  and  he  driv  a  college 

coach, 
And  so  knows  the  University,  and  ail  as  there  belongs, 
And  he  says  that  Oxford's  famouser  for  sausages  than 

songs, 
And  seldom   turns  a  poet  out  like  Hudson  that  can 

chant, 
As  well  as  make  such  ditties  as  the  Free  and  Easies 

want, 
Or  other  Tavern  Melodists  I  can't  just  call  to  mind  — 
But  it's  not  the   classic    system   for  to    propagate  the 

kind. 
Whereby  it  so  may  happen  as  that  neither   of  them 

Scholars 
May  be  the  proper  Chairman  for  the  Glorious  Apollers. 

For  my  part  in  the  matter,  if  so  be  I  had  a  voice, 

It's  the  best  among  the  vocalists   I'd   honor  with  the 
choice ; 

Or  a  poet  as  could  furnish  a  new  Ballad  to  the  Bunch  ; 

Or,  at  any  rate,  the  surest  hand  at  mixing  of  the  punch; 

'Cause  why,  the  members  meet  for  that  and  other  tune- 
ful frolics  — 

And   not   to   say,   like    Muffincaps,   their  Catichiz   and 
Collec's. 

But  you  see  them  there  Initc  rants  that   preach  so  long 
and  loud. 

And  always^  take  advantage  like  the  prigs  of  any  crowd, 

Have  brought    their  jangling  voices,  and   as  far  as  they 
can  compass, 

Have  turned  a  tavern  shindy  to  a  seriouser  rumpus, 

And  him  as  knows  most  hymns  —  although  I  can't  see 
how  it   tollers  — 

They  want  to  be  the  Chairman  of  the  Glorious  Apollers! 


440  A    K<)W    AT    '"tl;    OXFORD    ARMS. 

Well,  that's  the  row  —  and  who  can  guess  the  upshot 

after  all  ? 
Whether  Harmony  will   ever  make  the  "Arms"   her 

House  of  call, 
Or  whether  this  here  mobbing  —  as  some  longish  heads 

foretell  it, 
Will  grow  to  such  a  riot  that  the  Oxford  Blues  must 

quell  it, 
Howsomever,  for  the  present,   there's  no  sign  of  any 

peace, 
For  the  hubbub  keeps  a  growing,  and   defies  the  New 

Police  ; 
But  if  I  was  in  the  Vestry,  and  a  leading  sort  of  Man, 
Or  a  Member   of  the   Vocals,  to  get  backers   for  my 

plan, 
Why,  I'd  settle   all  the  squabble  in  the  twinkle,   of  a 

needle, 
For  I'd  have  another  candidate — and  that's  the  Parish 

Beadle, 
Who  makes  such  lots  of  Poetry,  himself,  or  else  by 

proxy, 
And   no    one   never   has   no   doubts    about  his  ortho- 
doxy; 
Whereby  —  if   folks  was    wise  —  instead    of   either   of 

them  Scholars, 
And  straining  their  own  lungs  along  of  contradictious 

hollers, 
They'll  lend  their  ears  to  reason,  and  take  my  advice  as 

toilers, 
Namely  —  Bumble   for  the  Chairman  of  the  Glorious 

Apollers ! 


ETCHING    MORALIZED.  441 

ETCHING   MORALIZED. 

TO    A    NOBLE    LADY. 

'•To  point  a  moral." — Johnson. 

Fairest  Lady  and  Noble,  for  once  on  a  time, 
Condescend  to  accept,  in  the  humblest  of  rhyme, 

And  a  style  more  of  Gay  than  of  Milton, 
A  few  opportune  verses  designed  to  impart 
Some  didactical  hints  in  a  Needlework  Art, 

Not  described  by  the  Countess  of  Wilton. 

An  Art  not  unknown  to  the  delicate  hand 
Of  the  fairest  and  first  in  this  insular  land, 

But  in  Patronage  Royal  delighting; 
And  which  now  your  own  feminine  fantasy  wins, 
Though  it  scarce  seems  a  lady-like  work  that  begins 

In  a  scratching  and  ends  in  a  biting! 

Yet,  O!  that  the  dames  of  the  Scandalous  School 
Would  but  use  the  same  acid,  and  sharp-pointed  tool, 

That  are  plied  in  the  said  operations  — 
O!  would  that  our  Candors  on  copper  would  sketch! 
For  the  first  of  all  things  in  beginning  to  etch 

Arc  —  good  grounds  for  our  representations. 

Those  protective  and  delicate  coatings  of  wax. 
Which  are  meant  to  resist  the  corrosive  attacks 

That  would  ruin  the  copper  completely; 
Thin  cerements  which  whoso  remembers  the  Bee, 
So  applauded  by  Watts,  the  divine  1  L.  D., 

Will  be  careful  to  spread  very  neatly. 

For  why  ?   like  some  intricate  deed  of  the  law, 
Should  the  ground  in  the  process  be  left  with  a  flaw, 


442  ETCHING    MORALIZED. 

Aquafortis  is  far  from  a  joker  ; 
And  attacking  the  part  that  no  coating  protects 
Will  turn  ont  as  distressing  to  all  your  effects 

As  a  landlord  who  puts  in  a  broker. 

Then  carefully  spread  the  conservative  stuff, 
Until  all  the  bright  metal  is  covered  enough 

To  repel  a  destructive  so  active 
For  in  Etching,  as  well  as  in  Morals,  pray  note 
That  a  little  raw  spot,  or  a  hole  in  a  coat, 

Your  ascetics  find  vastly  attractive. 

Thus  the  ground  being  laid,  very  even  and  fiat, 
And  then  smoked  with  a  taper,  till  black  as  a  hat, 

Still  from  future  disasters  to  screen  it, 
Just  allow  me,  by  way  of  precaution,  to  state, 
You  must  hinder  the  footman  from  changing  your  plate, 

Nor  yet  suffer  the  butler  to  clean  it. 

Nay,  the  housemaid,  perchance,  in  her  passion  to  scrub, 
May  suppose  the  dull  metal  in  want  of  a  rub, 

Like  the  Shield  which  Swift's  readers  remember- — 
Not  to  mention  the  chance  of  some  other  mishaps, 
Such  as  having  your  copper  made  up  into  caps 

To  be  worn  on  the  First  of  September. 

But  aloof  from  all  damage  by  Betty  or  John, 
You  secure  the  veiled  surface,  and  trace  thereupon 

The  design  you  conceive  the  most  proper  : 
Yet  gently,  and  not  with  a  needle  too  keen, 
Lest  it  pierce  to  the  wax  through  the  paper  between, 

And  of  course  play  Old  Scratch  with  the  copper. 

So  in  worldly  affairs,  the  sharp-practising  man 
Is  not  always  the  one  who  succeeds  in  his  plan, 
Witness  Shylock's  judicial  exposure  ; 


ETCHING    MORALIZED.  443 

Who,  as  keen  as  his  knife,  yet  with  agony  found, 
That  while  urging  his  point  he  was  losing  his  ground, 
And  incurring  a  fatal  disclosure. 

But,  perhaps,  without  tracing  at  all,  you  may  choose 
To  indulge  in  some  little  extempore  views, 

Like  the  older  artistical  people  ; 
For  example,  a  Coryclon  playing  his  pipe, 
In  a  Low  Country  Marsh,  with  a  Cow  after  Cuyp, 

And  a  Goat  skipping  over  a  steeple. 

A  wild  Deer  at  a  rivulet  taking  a  sup, 
With  a  couple  of  Pillars  put  in  to  fill  up, 

Like  the  columns  of  certain  diurnals  ; 
Or  a  very  brisk  sea,  i.i  a  very  still' gale, 
And  a  very  Dutch  boat,  with  a  very  big  sail  — 

Or  a  bevy  of  Itetzsch's  Infernals. 

Architectural  study  —  or  rich  Arabesque  — 
Allegorical  dream  —  or  a  view  picturesque, 

Near  to  Naples,  or  Venice,  or  Florence ; 
Or  "  as  harmless  as  lambs  and  as  gentle  as  doves," 
A  sweet  family  cluster  of  plump  little  Loves, 

Like  the  Children  by  Reynolds  or  Lawrence. 

But  -whatever  the  subject,  your  exquisite  taste 
Will  insure  a  design  very  charming  and  chaste, 

Like  yourself,  full  of  nature  and  beauty  — 
"\et  besides  the  </"•<</  points  you  already  reveal, 
You  will  need  a  few  others  —  of  well-tempered  steel. 

And  especially  formed  for  the  duty. 

For  suppose  thai  the  tool  be  imperfectly  set. 
Over  many  weak  lengths  in  your  line  you  will  fret, 

Like  a  pupil  of  Walton  and  Cotton 
Who  remains  by  the  brink  of  the  water,  agtpe, 


A  1  |  ETCHING    MORALIZED. 

While  the  jack,  trout,  or  barbel,  effects  its  escape 
Through  the  gut  or  silk  line  being  rotten. 

Therefore  let  the  steel  point  be  set  truly  and  round, 
That  the  finest  of  strokes  may  lie  even  and  sound, 

Flowing  glibly  where  fancy  would  lead  'em. 
But,  alas  for  the  needle  that  fetters  the  hand, 
And  forbids  even  sketches  of  Liberty's  land 

To  be  drawn  with  the  requisite  freedom! 

O  !  the  botches  I've  seen  by  a  tool  of  the  sort, 
Rather  hitching,  than  etching,  and  making,  in  short, 

Such  stiff,  crabbed,  and  angular  scratches, 
That  the  figures  seemed  statues  or  mummies  from  tombs, 
While  the  trees  were  as  rigid  as  bundles  of  brooms, 

And  the  herbage  like  bunches  of  matches  ! 

The  stiff  clouds  as  if  carefully  ironed  and  starched, 
While  a  cast-iron  bridge,  meant  for  wooden,  o'er-arched 

Something:  more  like  a  road  than  a  river. 
Prithee,  who  in  such  characteristics  could  see 
Any  trace  of  the  beautiful  land  of  the  free  — 

The  Free-Mason  —  Free-Trader  —  Free-Liver ! 

But  prepared  by  a  hand  that  is  skilful  and  nice, 
The  fine  point  glides  along  like  a  skate  on  the  ice, 

At  the  will  of  the  Gentle  Designer, 
"Who  impelling  the  needle  just  presses  so  much, 
That  each  line  of  her  labor  the  copper  may  (ouch, 

As  if  done  by  a  penny-a-liner. 

And,  behold  !  how  the  fast-growing  images  gleam  ! 
Like  the  sparkles  of  gold  in  a  sunshiny  stream, 

Till,  perplexed  by  the  glittering  issue, 
You  repine  for  a  light  of  a  tenderer  kind  — 
And  in  choosing  a  substance  for  making  a  blind, 

Do  not  sneeze  at  the  paper  called  tissue. 


ETCHING    MORALIZED.  445 

For,  subdued  by  the  sheet  so  transparent  and  white, 
Your  design  will  appear  in  a  soberer  light, 

And  reveal  its  defects  on  inspection, 
Just  as  Glory  achieved,  or  political  scheme, 
And  some  more  of  our  dazzling  performances,  seem 

Xot  so  bright  on  a  cooler  reflection. 

So  the  juvenile  Poet  with  ecstasy  views 

His  first  verses,  and  dreams  that  the  songs  of  his  Muse 

Are  as  brilliant  as  Moore's  and  as  tender  — 
Till  some  critical  sheet  scans  the  faulty  design, 
And,  alas !  takes  the  .shine  out  of  every  line 

That  had  formed  such  a  vision  of  splendor. 

Certain  objects,  however,  may  come  in  your  sketch, 
Which,  designed  by  a  hand  unaccustomed  to  etch, 

"With  a  luckless  result  may  be  branded ; 
Wherefore  add  this  particular  rule  to  your  code, 
Let  all  vehicles  take  the  wrong  side  of  the  road, 

And  man,  woman,  and  child,  be  left-handed. 

Yet  regard  not  the  awkward  appearance  with  doubt, 
But  remember  how  often  mere  blessings  fall  out, 

That  at  first  seemed  no  better  than  curses  ; 
Sd,  till  things  take  </  turn,  live  in  hope,  and  depend, 
Tint  whatever  is  wrong  will  come  right  in  the  end, 

And  console  you  for  all  your  reverses. 

But  of  errors  why  speak,  when  for  beauty  and  truth 
Your  free,  spirited  Etching  is  worthy,  in  sooth, 

Of  that  Club  (may  all  honor  betide  it!) 
Which,  though  dealing  in  copper,  by  genius  and  taste 
Has  accomplished  •<  servia  of  />/>//■■  not  disgraced 

By  the  work  of  a  Goldsmith  beside  it  .  * 

*  The  I1'  Berted  Village,  illustrated  by  the  Etching  Club. 
38 


446  I  rCHINd    Mill;  \l.!/.i:i>. 

So  your  sketch  superficially  drawn  on  the  plate 
It  becomes  you  to  fix  in  a  permanent  state, 

Which  involves  a  precise  operation, 
With  a  keen-biting  fluid,  which  eating  if*  >ra>/  — 
As  in  other  professions  is  common,  they  say  — 

lias  attained  an  artistical  station. 

And  it's  C) !  that  some  splenetic  folks  I  could  name, 
If  they  must  deal  in  acids,  would  use  but  the  same 

In  such  innocent  graphical  lahors  ! 
In  the  place  of  the  virulent  spirit  wherewith  — 
Like  the  polecat,  the  weasel,  and  things  of  that  kith  -" 

They  keep  biting  the  hacks  of  their  neighbors! 

Hut  beforehand,  with  wax  or  the  shoemaker's  pitch. 

Von  must  build  a  neat  dyke  round  the  margin,  in  wh^'h 

You  may  pour  the  dilute  aquafortis. 
For  if  raw,  like  a  dram,  it  will  shock  you  to  trace 
Your  design  with  a  horrible  froth  on  its  face, 

Like  a  wretch  in  articulo  mortis. 

Like  a  wretch  in  the  pangs  that  too  many  endure, 
From  the  use  of  strong  watt  rs,  without  any  pure, 

A  vile  practice,  most  sad  and  improper! 
For,  from  painful  examples,  this  warning  is  found, 
That  the  raw  burning  spirit  Mill  take  u/i  the  ground, 

In  the  church-yard,  as  well  as  on  copper! 

But  the  Acid  has  duly  been  lowered,  and  bites 
Only  just  where  the  visible  metal  invites, 

Like  a  nature  inclined  to  meet  troubles  ; 
And.  behold!  as  each  slender  and  glittering  line 
Effervesces,  you  trace  the  completed  design 

In  an  elegant  bead-work  of  bubbles  • 


ETCHING    MORALIZED.  447 

And  yet,  constantly,  secretly,  eating  its'  way, 
The  shrewd  acid  is  making  the  substance  its  prey, 

Like  some  sorrow  beyond  inquisition, 
Which  is  gnawing  the  heart  and  the  brain  all  the  while 
That  the  face  is  illumed  by  its  cheerfullest  smile, 

And  the  wit  is  in  bright  ebullition. 

But  still  stealthily  feeding,  the  treacherous  stuff 
Has  corroded  and  deepened  some  portions  enough  — 

The  pure  sky,  and  the  Avater  so  placid  — 
And,  these  tenderer  tints  to  defend  from  attack, 
With  some  turpentine,  varnish,  and  sooty  lampblack, 

You  must  stop  out  the  ferreting  acid. 

But  before  with  the  varnishing  brush  you  proceed, 
Lei  the  plate  with  cold  water  lie  thoroughly  freed 

From  the  other  less  innocent  liquor  — 
After  which,  on  whatever  you  want  to  protect, 
Put  a  cunt  that  will  act  to  that  very  effect, 

Like  the  black  one  that  hangs  on  the  Vicar. 

Then  the  varnish  well  dried  —  urge  the  biting  again, 
But  how  long  at  its  meal  the  eau  forte  may  remain, 

Time  and  practice  alone  can  determine  : 
But  of  course  not  so  long  that  the  Mountain,  and  Mill, 
The  rude  Bridge,  and  the  Figures,  whatever  you  will, 

Are  as  black  as  the  spots  on  your  ermine. 

It  is  true,  none  the  less,  that  a  dark-looking  scrap, 
'With  a  sort  of  Blackheath,  and  Black  Forest,  mayhap, 

Is  considered  as  rather  Rembrandty; 
And  that  very  black  cattle,  and  very  black  sheep, 
A  black  dog,  and  a  shepherd  as  black  as  a  sweep, 

Are  the  pets  of  some  great  Dilettante. 


448  ETCHING    MORALIZED. 

So  with  certain  designers,  one  needs  not  to  name, 
All  this  life  is  a  dark  scene  of  sorrow  and  shame, 
From  our  birth  to  our  final  adjourning  — 

Yea,  this  excellent  earth  and  its  glories,  alack  ! 
What  with  ravens,  palls,  cottons,  and  devils,  as  black 
As  a  Warehouse  for  Family  Mourning! 

But  before  your  own  picture  arrives  at  that  pitch, 
While  the  lights  are  still  light,  and  the  shadows,  though 
rich, 

More  transparent  than  ebony  shutters, 
Never  minding  what  Black-Arted  critics  may  say, 
Stop  the  biting,  and  pour  the  green  fluid  away, 

As  you  please,  into  bottles  or  gutters. 

Then  removing  the  ground  and  the  wax  at  a  heat, 
Cleanse  the  surface  with  oil,  spermaceti,  or  sweet  — 

For  your  hand  a  performance  scarce  proper  — 
So  some  careful  professional  person  secure  — 
For  the  Laundress  will  not  be  a  safe  amateur  — 

To  assist  you  in  cleaning  the  copper. 

And,  in  truth,  'tis  a  rather  unpleasantish  job, 
To  be  done  on  a  hot  German  stove,  or  a  hob  — 

Though  as  sure  of  an  instant  forgetting: 
"\Vhen  —  as  after  the  dark  clearing  off  of  a  storm  — 
The  fair  landscape  shines  out  in  a  lustre  as  warm 

As  the  glow  of  the  sun  in  its  setting ! 

Thus  your  Etching  complete,  it  remains  but  to  hint, 
That  with  certain  assistance  from  paper  and  print, 

Which  the  proper  Mechanic  will  settle, 
You  may  charm  all  your  Friends  —  without  any  sad  tale 
Of  such  perils  and  ills  as  beset  Lady  Sale  — 

With  a  fine  India  Proof  of  ;/"iir  Md<d. 


ODE.  449 

ODE 

ON    A    DISTANT    PROSPECT    OF    CLAPHAM    ACADEMY. 

Ah  me !  those  old  familiar  bounds  ! 
That  classic  house,  those  classic  grounds, 

My  pensive  thought  recalls  ! 
What  tender  urchins  now  confine, 
What  little  captives  now  repine, 

Within  yon  irksome  walls  ! 

Av,  that's  the  very  house  !  I  know 
Its  ugly  windows,  ten  a-row ! 

Its  chimneys  in  the  rear  ! 
And  there's  the  iron  rod  so  high, 
That  drew  the  thunder  from  the  sky, 

And  turned  our  table-beer  ! 

There  I  was  birched  !  there  I  was  bred ! 
There  like  a  little  Adam  fed 

From  Learning's  woful  tree  ! 
The  weary  tasks  I  used  to  con  !  — 
The  hopeless  leaves  I  wept  upon  !  — 

Most  fruitless  leaves  to  me  !  — 

The  summoned  class!  —  the  awful  bow!  — 
I  wonder  who  is  master  now, 

And  wholesome  anguish  sheds  ! 
How  many  ushers  now  employs, 
How  many  maids  to  see  the  boys 

Have  nothing  in  their  heads  ! 

And  Mrs.  S  *   *   • :»  —  Doth  she  abet 
(Like  Pallas  in  the  parlor)  yet 
Some  favored  two  or  three, — 
38  * 


450  ode. 

The  little  Crichtons  of  the  hour, 
Her  muffin-medals  that  devour, 
And  swill  her  prize  —  bohea  ? 

Ay,  there's  the  playground  !  there's  the  lime, 
Beneath  whose  shade  in  summer's  prime 

So  wildly  I  have  read  !  — 
Who  sits  there  noic,  and  skims  the  cream 
Of  young  Romance,  and  weaves  a  dream 

Of  Love  and  Cottage-bread  ? 

Who  struts  the  Randall  of  the  walk  ? 
Who  models  tiny  heads  in  chalk  ? 

Who  scoops  the  light,  canoe  ? 
What  early  genius  buds  apace? 
Where's  Poynter  ?  Harris  ?  Bowers  ?  Chase  ? 

Hal  Baylis  ?  blithe  Carew  ? 

Alack  !  they're  gone  — a  thousand  ways  ! 
And  some  are  serving  in  "  the  Greys," 

And  some  have  perished  young !  — 
Jack  Harris  weds  his  second  wife  ; 
Hal  Baylis  drives  the  wayne  of  life  ; 

And  blithe  Carew  —  is  hung  ! 

Grave  Bowers  teaches  A  B  C 
To  Savages  at  Owhyee  ; 

Poor  Chase  is  with  the  worms !  — 
All,  all  are  gone  —  the  olden  breed  !  — 
New  crops  of  mushroom  boys  succeed, 

"  And  push  us  from  our  forms !  " 

Lo !  where  they  scramble  forth,  and  shout, 
And  leap,  and  skip,  and  mob  about, 
At  play  where  we  have  played ! 


ODE.  451 

Some  hop,  some  run,  (some  fall,)  some  twine 
Their  crony  arms  ;  some  in  the  shine, 
And  some  are  in  the  shade ! 

JjO  there  what  mixed  conditions  run ! 
The  orphan  lad  ;  the  widow's  son ; 

And  Fortune's  favored  care  — 
The  wealthy  born,  for  whom  she  hath 
Macadamized  the  future  path  — 

The  nabob's  pampered  heir  ! 

Some  brightly  starred  —  some  evil  born,  — 
For  honor  some,  and  some  for  scorn,  — 

For  fair  or  foul  renown  ! 
Good,  bad,  indifferent  —  none  they  lack! 
Look,  here's  a  white,  and  there's  a  black ! 

And  there's  a  creole  brown ! 

Some  laugh  and  sing,  some  mope  and  weep, 
And  wish  their  frugal  sires  would  keep 

Their  only  sons  at  home  ;  — 
Some  tease  the  future  tense,  and  plan 
The  full-grown  doings  of  the  man, 

And  pant  for  years  to  come  ! 

A  foolish  wish  !     There's  one  at  hoop ; 
And  four  at  fives  !  and  five  who  stoop 

The  marble  taw  to  speed  ! 
And  one  that  curvets  in  and  out, 
Reining  his  fellow-cob  about, 

Would  I  were  in  his  steed! 

Yet  he  would  gladly  hall  and  drop 
That  boyish  harness  off,  to  swop 

With  tin's  world's  heavy  van  — 
To  toil,  to  tug.     0  little  fool! 


4u2  ODE. 

While  thou  canst  be  a  horse  at  school 
To  wish  to  be  a  man ! 

Perchance  thou  deem'st  it  were  a  thing 
To  wear  a  crown,  —  to  be  a  king  ! 

And  sleep  on  regal  down  ! 
Alas  !  thou  know'st  not  kingly  cares ; 
Far  happier  is  thy  head  that  wears 

That  hat  without  a  crown  ! 

And  dost  thou  think  that  years  acquire 
New  added  joys  ?     Dost  think  thy  she 

More  happy  than  his  son  ? 
That  manhood's  mirth  ?  —  0,  go  thy  ways 
To  Drury-lane  when plays, 

And  see  how  forced  our  fun  ! 

Thy  taws  are  brave  !  —  thy  tops  are  rare !  - 
Our  tops  are  spun  with  coils  of  care, 

Our  dumps  are  no  delight  !  — 
The  Elgin  marbles  are  but  tame, 
And  'tis  at  best  a  sorry  game 

To  fly  the  Muse's  kite  ! 

Our  hearts  are  dough,  our  heels  are  lead, 
Our  topmost  joys  fall  dull  and  dead, 

Like  balls  with  no  rebound  ! 
And  often  with  a  faded  eye 
We  look  behind,  and  send  a  sigh 

Towards  that  merry  "-round  ! 


b 


Then  be  contented.     Thou  hast  got 
The  most  of  heaven  in  thy  young  lot; 

There's  sky-blue  in  thy  cup  ! 
Thou'lt  find  thy  manhood  all  too  fast^ 
Soon  come,  soon  gone  !  and  age  at  last 

Z.  ;orry  breaking  :ip ! 


A    RETROSPECTIVE    REVIEW.  453 

A  RETROSPECTIVE   REVIEW. 

O,  WHEN  I  was  a  tiny  boy 

My  days  and  nights  were  full  of  joy, 

My  mates  were  blithe  and  kind  !  — 
No  wonder  that  I  sometimes  sigh, 
And  dash  the  tear-drop  from  my  eye, 

To  cast  a  look  behind ! 

A  hoop  was  an  eternal  round 

Of  pleasure.     In  those  days  I  found 

A  top  a  joyous  thing  ;  — 
But  now  those  past  delights  I  drop ; 

My  head,  alas  !  is  all  my  top, 
And  careful  thoughts  the  string ! 

My  marbles, —  once  my  hag  was  stored,— 
Now  I  must  play  with  Elgin's  lord, 

With  Theseus  for  a  taw  ! 
My  playful  horse  lias  slipt  his  string ! 
Forgotten  all  his  capering, 

And  harnessed  to  the  law  ! 

My  kite  —  how  fast  and  far  it  Hew  ! 
Whilst  I,  a  sort  of  Franklin,  drew 

My  pleasure  from  the  sky  ! 
Twas  papered  o'er  with  studious  themes, 
The  tasks  I  wrote  — my  present  dreams 

Will  never  soar  so  high  ! 

My  joys  arc  wingless  all  and  dead; 

My  dumps  are  made  of  more  than  jdd; 

My  flights  soon  find  a  fall ; 
My  fears  prevail,  my  fancies  droop 
Joy  never  cometh  with  a  hoop, 

And  seldom  with  a  call ! 


454  A    RETROSPECTIVE    REVIEW. 

My  football's  laid  upon  the  shelf; 
I  am  a  shuttlecock  myself 

The  world  knocks  to  and  fro  ;  — 
My  archery  is  all  unlearned, 
And  grief  against  myself  has  turned 

My  arrows  and  my  bow  ! 

No  more  in  noontide  sun  I  bask : 
My  authorship's  an  endless  task, 

My  head's  ne'er  out  of  school ; 
My  heart  is  pained  with  scorn  and  slight, 
I  have  too  many  foes  to  fight, 

And  friends  grown  strangely  cool ! 

The  very  chum  that  shared  my  cake 
Holds  out  so  cold  a  hand  to  shake, 

It  makes  me  shrink  and  sigh  :  — 
On  this  I  will  not  dwell  and  hang, 
The  changeling  would  not  feel  a  pang 

Though  these  should  meet  his  eye  ! 

No  skies  so  blue  or  so  serene 

As  then  ;  —  no  leaves  look  half  so  green 

As  clothed  the  play-ground  tree  ! 
All  things  I  loved  arc  altered  so, 
Nor  does  it  ease  my  heart  to  know 

That  change  resides  in  me  ! 

O,  for  the  garb  that  marked  the  boy, 
The  trousers  made  of  corduroy. 

Well  inked  with  black  and  red: 
The  crounless  hat,  ne'er  deemed  an  ill -= 
It  only  let  the  sunshine  still 

Repose  upon  my  head  ! 

O,  for  the  riband  round  the  neck ! 
The  careless  dog's-ears  apt  to  deck 


A    RETROSPECTIVE    REVIEW.  455 

My  book  and  collar  both ! 
How  can  this  formal  man  be  styled 
Merely  an  Alexandrine  child, 

A  boy  of  larger  growth  ? 

O,  for  that  small,  small  beer  anew ! 

And  (heaven's  own  type)  that  mild  sky-blue 

That  washed  my  sweet  meals  down  ; 
The  master  even !  —  and  that  small  Turk 
That  fagged  me  —  worse  is  now  my  work  — 

A  fag  for  all  the  town  ! 

O,  for  the  lessons  learned  by  heart ! 
Ay,  though  the  very  birch's  smart 

Should  mark  those  hours  again  ; 
I'd  "  kiss  the  rod,"  and  be  resigned 
Beneath  the  stroke,  and  even  find 

Some  sugar  in  the  cane  ! 

The  Arabian  Nights  rehearsed  in  bed ! 
The  Fairy  Tales  in  school-time  read, 

By  stealth,  'twixt  verb  audjioun! 
The  angel  form  that  always  walked 
In  all  my  dreams,  and  looked  and  talked 

Exactly  like  Miss  Brown  ! 

The  omne  bene — Christmas  come! 
The  prize  of  merit,  won  for  home  — 

Merit  had  prizes  then  ! 
But  now  I  write  for  days  and  days, 
For  fame — a  deal  of  empty  praise, 

Without  the  silver  pen  ! 

Then  home,  sweet  home!  the  crowded  coach  — 
The  joyous  shout  —  the  loud  approach    - 


4c)G         FUGITIVE   LINES   ON    PAWNING    MY    WATCH. 

The  winding  horns  like  rams' ! 
The  meeting  .sweet  that  made  me  thrill, 
The  sweet-meats  almost  sweeter  still, 

No  "satis"  to  the  "jams!" — 

When  that  I  was  a  tiny  boy 

My  days  and  nights  were  full  of  joy, 

My  mates  were  blithe  and  kind ! 
No  wonder  that  I  sometimes  sigh, 
And  dash  the  tear-drop  from  my  eye, 

To  cast  a  look  behind  ! 


FUGITIVE   LINES  ON  PAWNING   MY  WATCH. 

"  Aunuii  pnt-a-bile :  "  —  Gold  biles  the  pot.  —  Free  Translation. 

Farewell  then,  my  golden  repeater, 
We're  come  to  my  Uncle's  old  shop ; 

And  hunger  won't  be  a  dumb-waiter, 
The  Cerberus  growls  for  a  sop. 

To  quit  thee,  my*comrade  diurnal, 

My  feelings  will  certainly  scotch  ; 
But  O  !  there's  a  riot  internal, 

And  Famine  calls  out  for  the  Watch  ! 

O  !  hunger's  a  terrible  trial, 

I  really  must  have  a  relief — 
So  here  goes  the  plates  of  your  dial 

To  fetch  me  some  Williams's  beef! 

As  famished  as  any  lost  seaman, 

I've  fasted  for  many  a  dawn, 
And  now  must  play  chess  with  the  Demon, 

And  give  it  a  check  with  a  pawn. 


FUGITIVE    LINES    ON    PAWNING    MY    WATCH.  457 

I've  fasted,  since  dining  at  Buncle's, 
Two  days  with  true  Perceval  zeal  — 

And  now  must  make  up  at  my  Uncle's, 
By  getting  a  duplicate  meal. 

No  Peachum  it  is,  or  young  Lockit, 

That  rifles  my  fob  with  a  snatch ; 
Alas  !  I  must  pick  my  own  pocket, 

And  make  gravy-soup  of  my  watch ! 

So  long  I  have  wandered  a  starver, 

I'm  getting  as  keen  as  a  hawk  ; 
Time's  long  hand  must  take  up  a  carver, 

His  short  hand  lay  hold  of  a  fork. 

Right  heavy  and  sad  the  event  is, 

But  O !  it  is  Poverty's  crime  ; 
I've  been  such  a  Brownrigg's  Apprentice, 

I  thus  must  be  "out  of  my  Time." 

Folks  talk  about  dressing  for  dinner, 

But  I  have  for  dinner  undrest ; 
Since  Christinas,  as  I  am  a  sinner, 

I've  eaten  a  suit  of  my  best. 

I  haven't  a  rag  or  a  mummock 

To  fetch  me  a  chop  or  a  steak  ; 
I  wish  that  tin-  coats  of  my  stomach 

Were  such  as  my  Uncle  would  take ! 

When  dishes  were  ready  with  garnish 
My  natch  used  to  warn  with  a  chime—' 

But  now  my  repeater  musl  furnish 
The  dinner  in  lieu  of  the  time ! 
39 


458  IHF-    BBOXEN    DISH. 

My  craving  will  have  no  denials, 
I  can't  fob  it  off,  if  you  stay, 

So  go  —  and  the  old  Seven  Dials 
Must  tell  me  the  time  of  the  day. 

Your  chimes  I  shall  never  more  hear  'em, 
To  part  is  u  Tic  Douloureux  ! 

But  Tempus  has  his  edax  rerum, 
And  I  have  my  Feeding-Time  too ! 

Farewell  then,  my  golden  repeater, 
We're  come  to  my  Uncle's  old  shop  — 

And  Hunger  won't  be  a  dumb-waiter, 
The  Cerberus  growls  for  a  sop  ! 

Alas !  when  in  Brook  Street  the  upper 
In  comfort  I  lived  between  walls, 

I've  gone  to  a  dance  for  my  supper ;  — 
But  now  I  must  go  to  Three  Balls ! 


THE   BROKEN   DISH. 

What's  life  but  full  of  care  and  doubt, 
With  all  its  fine  humanities? 

With  parasols  we  walk  about, 
Long  pigtails  and  such  vanities. 

We  pJant  pomegranate  trees  and  things, 

And  go  in  gardens  sporting, 
With  toys  and  fans  of  peacock's  wings, 

To  painted  ladies  courting. 

We  gather  flowers  of  every  hue, 
And  fish  in  boats  for  fishes, 


ODE    TO    PEACE.  459 

Build  summer-houses  painted  blue  — 
But  life's  as  frail  as  dishes. 

Walking  about  their  groves  of  trees, 

Blue  bridges  and  blue  rivers, 
How  little  thought  them  two  Chinese, 

They'd  both  be  smashed  to  shivers. 


ODE  TO   PEACE. 

Written  on  the  night  of  my  mistress's  grand  rout 

O  Peace  !  O  come  with  me  and  dwell  — 

But  stop,  for  there's  the  bell. 
O  Peace !  for  thee  I  go  and  sit  in  churches, 

On  Wednesday,  when  there's  very  few 

In  loft  or  pew  — 
Another  ring,  the  tarts  are  come  from  Birch's. 
O  Peace  !  for  thee  I  have  avoided  marriage  — 

Hush  !  there's  a  carriage. 
O  Peace !  thou  art  the  best  of  earthly  goods  — 

The  five  Miss  Woods. 
O  Peace  !  thou  art  the  Goddess  I  adore  — 

There  come  some  more. 
O  Peace!  thou  child  of  solitude  and  quiet  — 
That's  Lord  Drum's  footman,  for  he  loves  a  riot. 
O  Peace  ! 

Knocks  will  not  cease. 
O  Peace  !  thou  wert  for  human  comfort  planned  — \ 

That's  Weippert's  hand. 
O  Peace  !  how  glad  I  welcome  thy  approaches  — 

I  hear  the  sound  of  coaches. 
O  Peace  !  O  Peace  !  —  another  carriage  stops  — 

It's  early  for  the  Blenkinsops. 


460  OI>E    TO    PEACE. 

O  Peace  !  with  thee  I  love  to  wander, 

But  wait  till  I  have  showed  up  Lady  Squander, 

And  now  I've  seen  her  up  the  stair, 

O  Peace  !  —  but  here  conies  Captain  Hare. 

O  Peace  !  thou  art  the  slumber  of  the  mind, 

Untroubled,  calm  and  quiet,  and  unbroken  — 

If  that  is  Alderman  Guzzle  from  Portsoken, 

Alderman  Gobble  won't  be  far  behind  ; 

O  Peace  !  serene  in  worldly  shyness  — 

Make  way  there  for  his  Serene  Highness ! 

0  Peace  !  if  you  do  not  disdain 
To  dwell  amongst  the  menial  train, 

1  have  a  silent  place,  and  lone, 
That  you  and  I  may  call  our  own  ; 
Where  tumult  never  makes  an  entry  — 
Susan,  what  business  have  you  in  my  pantry  ? 
O  Peace  !  but  there  is  Major  Monk, 

At  variance  with  his  wife  —  0  Peace  ! 
And  that  great  German,  Vander  Trunk, 
And  that  great  talker,  Miss  Apreece ; 
O  Peace  !  so  dear  to  poets'  quills  — 
They're  just  beginning  their  quadrilles  — 

0  Peace  !  our  greatest  renovator ; 

1  wonder  where  I  put  my  waiter  — 

0  Peace !  —  but  here  my  Ode  I'll  cease; 

1  have  no  peace  to  write  of  Peace. 


pompey's  ghost.  461 

POMPEY'S   GHOST. 

A    PATHETIC    BALLAD. 

"Skins  may  differ,  Imt  affection 
Dwells  in  white  and  black  the  same." 

Cowper. 

TWAS  twelve  o'clock,  not  twelve  at  night, 

But  twelve  o'clock  at  noon  ; 
Because  the  sun  was  shining  bright 

And  not  the  silver  moon. 
A  proper  time  for  friends  to  call, 

Or  Pots,  or  Penny  Post ; 
When.  lo  !  as  Phoebe  sat  at  work, 

She  saw  her  Pompey's  Ghost ! 

Now  when  a  female  has  a  call 

From  people  that  are  dead, 
Like  Paris  ladies  she  receives 

Her  visitors  in  bed. 
But  Pompey's  spirit  would  not  come 

Like  spirits  that  are  white, 
Because  he  was  a  Blackamoor, 

And  wouldn't  show  at  night ! 

But  of  all  unexpected  things 

That  happen  to  us  here, 
The  mosl  unpleasant  is  a  rise 

In  what  is  very  dear. 
So  Phoebe  screamed  an  awful  scream 

To  prove  the  seaman's  text, 
That  after  black  appearances, 

White  squalls  will  follow  next. 

"O,  Phoebe  dear!  ().  Phoebe  dear! 
Don't  go  to  scream  or  faint; 
39* 


462  pompey's  ghost. 

You  think  because  I'm  black  I  am 

The  Devil,  but  I  ain't! 
Behind  the  heels  of  Lady  Lambe 

I  walked  while  I  had  breath ; 
But  that  is  past,  and  I  am  now 

A-walking  after  Death ! 

"No  murder,  though,  I  come  tc  tell 

By  base  and  bloody  crime ; 
So,  Phoebe  dear,  put  off  your  fits 

To  some  more  fitting  time. 
No  Coroner,  like  a  boatswain's  mate, 

My  body  need  attack, 
With  his  round  dozen  to  find  out 

Why  I  have  died  so  black. 

"  One  Sunday,  shortly  after  tea, 

My  skin  began  to  burn 
As  if  I  had  in  my  inside 

A  heater,  like  the  urn. 
Delirious  in  the  night  I  grew, 

And  as  I  lay  in  bed, 
They  say  I  gathered  all  the  wool 

You  see  upon  my  head. 

"  His  Lordship  for  his  Doctor  sent, 

My  treatment  to  begin  ;  — 
I  wish  that  he  had  called  him  out, 

Before  he  called  him  in  ! 
For  though  to  physic  he  was  bred, 

And  passed  at  Surgeon's  Hall, 
To  make  his  post  a  sinecure 

He  never  cured  at  all ! 

"  The  Doctor  looked  about  my  breast, 
And  then  about  my  back, 


pompey's  ghost.  463 

And  then  he  shook  his  head  and  said, 

'  Your  case  looks  very  black.' 
And  first  he  sent  me  hot  cayenne 

And  then  gamboge  to  swallow, 
But  still  my  fever  would  not  turn 

To  Scarlet  or  to  Yellow  ! 

"  With  madder  and  with  turmeric, 

He  made  his  next  attack  ; 
But  neither  he  nor  all  his  drugs 

Could  stop  my  dying  black. 
At  last  I  got  so  sick  of  life, 

And  sick  of  being  dosed, 
One  Monday  morning  I  gave  up 

My  physic  and  the  ghost ! 

"  O,  Phiebe,  dear,  what  pain  it  was 

To  sever  every  tie  ! 
You  know  black  beetles  feel  as  much 

As  giants  when  they  die. 
And  if  there  is  a  bridal  bed, 

Or  bride  of  little  worth, 
It's  lying  in  a  bed  of  mould, 

Alon<?  with  Mother  Earth. 


■a 


M  Alas  !  some  happy,  happy  day, 

In  church  I  hoped  to  stand, 
And  like  a  mutt"  of  sable  ski? 

Receive  your  lily  hand. 
But  sternly  with  that  piebald  match 

My  fate  untimely  clashes. 
For  now,  like  Pompe-doublc-i, 

I'm  sleeping  in  my  ashes  ! 

"And  now  farewell!  a  last  farewell •' 
I'm  wanted  down  below, 


464  ODE    TO    DK.    HAHNEMANN. 

And  have  but  time  enough  to  add 

One  word  before  I  go  — 
In  mourning  crape  and  bombazine 

Ne'er  spend  your  precious  pelf  • 
Don't  go  in  black  for  me  —  for  I 

Can  do  it  for  myself. 

"  Henceforth  within  my  grave  I  rest, 

But  Death,  who  there  inherits, 
Allowed  my  spirit  leave  to  come, 

You  seemed  so  out  of  spirits  ; 
But  do  not  sigh,  and  do  not  cry, 

By  grief  too  much  engrossed, 
Nor  for  a  ghost  of  color,  turn 

The  color  of  a  ghost ! 

"  Again,  farewell,  my  Phoebe  dear ! 

Once  more  a  last  adieu  ! 
For  I  must  make  myself  as  scarce 

As  swans  of  sable  hue." 
From  black  to  gray,  from  gray  to  nought 

The  shape  began  to  fade  — 
And,  like  an  egg,  though  not  so  white, 

The  Ghost  was  newly  laid ! 


ODE  TO  DR.  HAHNEMANN,  THE  HOMCE, 
OPATHIST. 

Well,  Doctor, 
Great  concoctor 
Of  medicines  to  help  in  man's  distress ; 
Diluting  down  the  strong  to  meek, 
And  making  ev'n  the  weak  more  weak, 


ODE    TO    DR.    HAHNEMANN.  4G5 

"  Fine  by  degrees,  and  beautifully  less"  — 
Founder  of  a  new  system  economic, 
To  druggists  any  thing  but  comic  ; 

Framed  the  whole  race  of  Ollapods  to  fret 

At  profits,  like  thy  doses,  very  small; 

To  put  all  Doctors'  Boys  in  evil  case, 

Thrown  out  of  bread,  of  physic,  and  of  place  — 

And  show  us  old  Apothecaries'  Hall 
"  To  Let." 

How  fare  thy  Patients  ?  are  they  dead  or  living, 
Or  well  as  can  expected  be,  with  such 
A  style  of  practice,  liberally  giving 

"  A  sum  of  more  to  that  which  had  too  much  ?  " 

Dost  thou  preserve  the  human  frame,  or  turf  it? 

Do  thorough  draughts  cure  thorough  colds  or  not  ? 
Do  fevers  yield  to  any  thing  that's  hot  ? 

Or  hearty  dinners  neutralize  a  surfeit  ? 

Is't  good  advice  for  gastronomic  ills, 

When  Indigestion's  face  with  pain  is  crumpling, 

To  cry,  "  Discard  those  Peristaltic  Pills, 
Take  a  hard  dumpling  ?  " 

Tell  me,  thou  German  Cousin, 
And  tell  me  honestly,  without  a  diddle, 
Does  an  attenuated  dose  of  rosin 
Act  as  a  tonic  on  the  old  Scotch  fiddled 
Tell  me,  when  Anhalt-Coethen  babies  wriggle, 

Like  eels  just  caught  by  sniggle, 
Martyrs  to  some  acidity  internal, 

That  gives  them  pangs  infernal, 
Meanwhile  the  lip  grows  black,  the  eye  enlarges ; 
Say,  comes  there  all  at  once  a  cherub-calm, 
Thanks  to  that  soothing  homoeopathic  balm, 
The  half  of  half  of  half  a  drop  of  "vargesl  " 


466  ODE    TO    DR.    HAHNEMANN. 

Suppose,  for  instance,  upon  Leipzig's  plain, 

A  soldier  pillowed  on  a  heap  of  slain, 

In  urgent  want  both  of  a  priest  and  proctor ; 

When  lo  !  there  comes  a  man  in  green  and  red, 

A  featherless  cocked  hat  adorns  his  head, 

In  short,  a  Saxon  military  doctor  — 

Would  he,  indeed,  on  the  right  treatment  fix, 

To  cure  a  horrid  gaping  wound. 

Made  by  a  ball  that  weighed  a  pound, 
If  he  well  peppered  it  with  number  six  ? 

Suppose  a  felon  doomed  to  swing 

Within  a  rope, 

Might  friends  not  hope 
To  cure  him  with  a  string  ? 
Suppose  his  breath  arrived  at  a  full  stop, 
The  shades  of  death  in  a  black  cloud  before  him, 
Would  a  quintillionth  dose  of  the  New  Drop 
Restore  him  ? 

Fancy  a  man  gone  rabid  from  a  bite, 

Snapping  to  left  and  right, 
And  giving  tongue  like  one  of  Sebright's  hounds, 

Terrific  sounds, 
The  pallid  neighborhood  with  horror  cowing, 
To  hit  the  proper  homoeopathic  mark  ; 
Now,  might  not  "  the  last  taste  in  life  "  of  bark 

Stop  his  boio-wow-4ng  ? 
Nay,  with  a  well-known  remedy  to  fit  him, 
Would  he  not  mend,  if,  with  all  proper  care, 

He  took  "  a  hair 
Of  the  dog  that  bit  him  ?  " 

Picture  a  man  —  we'll  say  a  Dutch  Meinheer  — 
In  evident  emotion, 


ODE    TO    DR.    HAHNEMANN.  467 

Bent  o'er  the  bulwark  of  the  Batavier, 

Owning  those  symptoms  queer 
Some  feel  in  a  Sick  Transit  o'er  the  ocean, 
Can  any  thing  in  life  be  more  pathetic 
Than  when  he  turns  to  us  his  wretched  face  ?  — 

But  would  it  mend  his  case 

To  be  decillionth-dosed 

With  something  like  the  ghost 
Of  an  emetic  ? 

Lo !  now  a  darkened  room  ! 

Look  through  the  dreary  gloom, 
And  see  that  coverlet  of  wildest  form, 
Tost  like  the  billows  in  a  storm, 
Where  ever  and  anon,  with  groans,  emerges 

A  ghastly  head !  — 
While  two  impatient  arms  still  beat  the  bed, 
Like  a  strong  swimmer's  struggling  with  the  surges: 
There  Life  and  Death  are  on  their  battle-plain, 
With  many  a  mortal  ecstasy  of  pain  — 
What  shall  support  the  body  in  its  trial, 
Cool  the  hot  blood,  wild  dream,  and  parching  skin, 
And  tame  the  raging  Malady  within  — 
A  sniff  of  Next-to-Nothing  in  a  phial  ? 

O!  Doctor  Hahnemann,  if  here  I  laugh 

And  cry  together,  half  and  halt', 
Excuse  me,  'tis  a  mood  the  subject  brings, 
To  think,  whilst  1  have  crowed  like  chanticleer, 
Perchance,  from  some  dull  eye  the  hopeless  tear 
Hath  gushed  with  my  light  levity  at  schism, 

To  mourn  some  Martyr  of  Empiricism: 
Perchance,  upon  tin  system,  I  have  given 
A  pang,  superfluous,  to  the  pains  of  Sorrow, 
Who  weeps  with  Memory  from  morn  till  even; 


468  ODE  T0   DR>    HAHNEMANN. 

Where  comfort  there  is  none  to  lend  or  borrow, 

Sighing  to  one  sad  strain, 

"  She  will  not  come  again, 
To-morrow,  nor  to-morrow,  nor  to-morrow ! " 

Doctor,  forgive  me,  if  I  dare  prescribe 
A  rule  for  thee  thyself,  and  all  thy  tribe, 
Inserting  a  few  serious  words  by  stealth ; 

Above  all  price  of  wealth 
The  Body's  jewel  —  not  for  minds  profane, 
Or  hands,  to  tamper  with  in  practice  vain  — 
Like  to  a  Woman's  Virtue  is  Man's  Health. 
A  heavenly  gift  within  a  holy  shrine! 
To  be  approached  and  touched  with  serious  fear, 
By  hands  made  /aire,  and  hearts  of  faith  severe, 
Ev'n  as  the  Priesthood  of  the  ONE  divine! 

But,  zounds !  each  fellow  with  a  suit  of  black, 

And,  strange  to  fame, 

With  a  diploma'd  name, 
That  carries  two  more  letters  pick-a-back, 
With  cane,  and  snuffbox,  powdered  wig,  and  block. 
Invents  his  dose,  as  if  it  were  a  chrism, 
And  dares  to  treat  our  wondrous  mechanism 
Familiar  as  the  works  of  old  Dutch  clock; 
Yet,  how  would  common  sense  esteem  the  man, 
O  how,  my  unrelated  German  cousin, 
Who  having  some  such  time-keeper  on  trial, 
And  finding  it  too  fast,  enforced  the  dial, 
To  strike  upon  the  Homoeopathic  plan 

Of  fourteen  to  the  dozen? 

Take  my  advice,  'tis  given  without  a  fee, 

Drown,  drown  your  book  ten  thousand  fathoms  deep, 


ode  for  st.  Cecilia's  eve.  4C9 

Like  Prospero's,  beneath  the  briny  sea, 
For  spells  of  magic  have  all  gone  to  sleep ! 
Leave  no  decillionth  fragment  of  your  works 
To  help  the  interest  of  quacking  Burkes ; 
Aid  not  in  murdering  even  widows'  mites  — 
And  now  forgive  me  for  my  candid  zeal, 
I  had  not  said  so  much,  but  that  I  feel 
Should  you  take  ill  what  here  my  Muse  indites, 
An  Ode-ling  more  will  set  you  all  to  rights. 


ODE   FOR   ST.  CECILIA'S   EVE. 

"  Look  out  for  squalls."  —  The  Pilot. 

O  COME,  dear  Barney  Isaacs,  come, 
Punch  for  one  night  can  spare  his  drum 

As  well  as  pipes  of  Pan  ! 
Forget  not,  Popkins,  your  bassoon, 
Nor.  Mister  Bray,  your  horn,  as  soon 

As  you  can  leave  the  Van  ; 
Blind  Billy,  bring  your  violin  ; 
Miss  Crow,  you're  great  in  Cherry  Ripe ! 
And  Chubb,  your  viol  must  drop  in 
Its  bass  to  Soo-er  Tommy's  pipe. 

Ye  butchers,  bring  your  bones  : 
An  organ  would  not  be  amiss; 
If  grinding  Jim  has  spouted  his, 

Lend  yours,  good  Mister  Jones. 
Do,  hurdy-gurdy  Jenny  —  do 
Keep  sober  for  an  hour  or  two, 
Music's  charms  to  help  to  paint; 
And,  Sandy  Gray,  If  you  should  not 
Your  bagpipes  bring  —  O  tuneful  Scot! 
Conceive  the  feelings  of  the  Saint! 
40 


470  ODE    FOK    ST.    CECILIA'S    EVE. 

Miss  Strummel  issues  an  invite, 

For  music,  and  turn-out  to-night 

In  honor  of  Cecilia's  session  ; 

But  ere  you  go,  one  moment  stop, 

And  with  all  kindness  let  me  drop 

A  hint  to  you  and  your  profession. 

Imprimis  then  :  Pray  keep  within 

The  hounds  to  which  your  skill  was  horn  ; 

Let  the  one-handed  let  alone  Tromhone, 

Don't  —  Itheumatiz  !  seize  the  violin, 

Or  Ashmy  snatch  the  horn  ! 

Don't  ever  to  such  rows  give  birth, 

As  if  you  had  no  end  on  earth 

Except  to  "  wake  the  lyre  ;  " 

Don't  "  strike  the  harp,"  pray  never  do, 

Till  others  long  to  strike  it  too, 

Perpetual  harping's  apt  to  tire  ; 

O  I  have  heard  such  flat-and  sharpers, 
I've  blest  the  head 
Of  good  King  Ned. 

For  scragging  all  those  old  Welsh  Harpers ! 

Pray,  never,  ere  each  tuneful  doinsr. 
Take  a  prodigious  deal  of  wooing; 
And  then  sit  down  to  thrum  the  strain 
As  if  you'd  never  rise  again  — 
The  least  Cecilia-like  of  things  ; 
Bemember  that  the  Saint  has  wings. 
I've  known  Miss  Strummel  pause  an  hour, 
Ere  she  could  "  Pluck  the  Fairest  Flower," 
Yet  without  hesitation,  she 
Plunged  next  into  the  "  Deep.  Deep  Sea," 
And  when  on  the  keys  she  does  begin, 
Such  awful  torments  soon  you  share, 


ode  for  st.  Cecilia's  eve.  471 

She  really  seems  like  Milton's  "  Sin," 
Holding  the  keys  of —  you  know  where  ! 

Never  tweak  people's  ears  so  toughly, 
That  urchin-like  they  can't  help  saying  — 
"  O  dear !  O  dear  —  you  call  this  playing. 
But  O,  it's  playing  very  roughly !  " 
Oft,  in  the  ecstasy  of  pain, 
I've  cursed  all  instrumental  workmen, 
Wished  Broadwood  Thurtelled  in  a  lane, 
And  Kirke  White's  fate  to  every  Kirkman  — 
I  really  once  delighted  spied 
"Clementi  Collard"  in  Cheapside. 

Another  word  —  don't  be  surprised, 
Revered  and  ragged  street  Musicians, 
You  have  been  only  half-baptized, 
And  eacli  name  proper,  or  improper, 
Is  not  the  value  of  a  copper, 
Till  it  has  had  the  due  additions, 
Husky,  Rusky, 
Ninny,  Tinny, 
Hummel,  Bummel, 
Bowski,  Wowski, 
All  these  are  very  good  selectables ; 
But  none  of  your  plain  pudding-and-tames  — 
Folks  that  arc  called  the  hardest  names 
Are  music's  most  respectables. 
Ev'ry  woman,  ev'ry  man, 
Look  as  foreign  as  you  can, 
Don't  cut  your  hair, .or  wash  your  skin, 
Make  ugly  laces  and  begin. 

Each  Dingy  Orpheus  gravely  bears, 
And  now  to  show  thev  understand  it ! 


472  ODK  i'011  ST-  Cecilia's  kve. 

Miss  Crow  her  scrannel  throttle  clears, 
And  all  the  rest  prepare  to  band  it. 
Each  scraper»ripe  for  concertante, 
Rozins  the  hair  of  Rozinante: 
Then  all  sound  A,  if  they  know  which, 
That  they  may  join  like  birds  in  June  : 
Jack  Tar  alone  neglects  to  tune, 
For  he's  all  over  concert-pitch. 
A  little  prelude  goes  before, 
Like  a  knock  and  ring  at  music's  door, 
Each  instrument  gives  in  its  name  ; 
Then  sitting  in 
They  all  begin 
To  play  a  musical  round  game. 
Scrapenberg,  as  the  eldest  hand, 
Leads  a  first  fiddle  to  the  band, 

A  second  follows  suit ; 
Anon  the  ace  of  Horns  comes  plump 
On  the  two  fiddles  with  a  trump ; 

Puffindorf  plays  a  flute. 
This  sort  of  musical  revolve, 
The  grave  bassoon  begins  to  smoke, 
And  in  rather  grumpy  kind 
Of  tone  begins  to  speak  its  mind ; 
The  double  drum  is  next  to  mix, 
Playing  the  Devil  on  Two  Sticks  — 
Clamor,  clamor, 
Hammer,  hammer, 
While  now  and  then  a  pipe  is  heard, 
Insisting  to  put  in  a  word 

With  all  his  shrilly  best ; 
So  to  allow  the  little  minion 
Time  to  deliver  his  opinion, 
They  take  a  few  bars  rest 


ODE    FOR    ST.    CECILIA'S    EVE.  473 

Well,  little  Pipe  begins  —  with  sole 
And  small  voice  going  thro'  the  hole, 
Beseeching, 
Preaching, 
Squealing, 
Appealing, 
Now  as  high  as  he  can  go, 
Now  in  language  rather  low, 
And  having  done  —  begins  once  more, 
Verbatim  what  he  said  before. 
This  twiddling-twaddling  sets  on  fire 
All  the  old  instrumental  ire, 
And  fiddles,  for  explosion  ripe, 
Put  out  the  little  squeaker's  pipe  ; 
This  wakes  bass  viol —  and  viol  for  that 
Seizing  on  innocent  little  B  fiat, 
Shakes  it  like  terrier  shaking  a  rat  — 

They  all  seem  miching  malico ! 
To  judge  from  a  rumble  unawares, 
The  drum  has  had  a  pitch  down  stairs ; 
And  the  trumpet  rash, 
By  a  violent  crash, 
Seems  splitting  somebody's  calico! 
The  viol  too  groans  in  deep  distress, 
As  if  he  suddenly  grew  sick  ; 
And  one  rapid  fiddle  sets  off  express  — 
Hurrying, 
Scurrying, 
Spatteringj 
Clattering, 
To  fetch  him  a  Doctor  of  Music. 
This  tumult  sets  the  liaut-boy  crying 
Beyond  the  Piano's  pacifying, 
40  ' 


474  ODE    FOR    ST.    CECILIA'S    EVE. 

The  cymbal 
Gets  nimble, 
Triangle 
Must  wrangle, 
The  band  is  becoming  most  martial  of  bands, 
When  just  in  the  middle, 
A  quakerly  fiddle, 
Propbses  a  general  shaking  of  hands  ! 
Quaking, 
Shaking, 
Quivering, 
Shivering, 
Long  bow  —  short  bow —  each  bow  drawing  : 

Some  like  filing  —  some  like  sawing  ; 
At  last  these  agitations  cease, 
And  they  all  get 
The  flageolet, 
To  breathe  "  a  piping  time  of  peace." 

Ah,  too  deceitful  charm, 
Like  lightning  before  death, 
For  Scrapenberg  to  rest  his  arm. 
And  Puflindorf  get  breath  ! 
Again  without  remorse  or  pity, 
They  play  "  The  Storming  of  a  City." 
Miss  S.  herself  composed  and  planned  it  — 
"When  lo !  at  this  renewed  attack, 
Up  Mimps  a  little  man  in  black  — 
"  The  very  Devil  cannot  stand  it !  " 

And  with  that, 

Snatching  hat, 

( Xot  his  own,) 

Off  is  flown, 

Thro'  the  door. 


THE    LOST    HEIE.  475 


In  his  black, 
To  come  back, 
Never,  never,  never,  more  ! 
O  Music  !  praises  thou  hast  had, 

From  Dryden  and  from  Pope, 
For  thy  good  notes,  yet  none  I  hope, 

But  I,  e'er  praised  the  bad. 
Yet  are  not  saint  and  sinner  even  ? 
Miss  Strummel  on  Cecilia's  level  ? 
One  drew  an  angel  down  from  heaven ! 
The  other  scared  away  the  Devil ! 


THE  LOST   HEIR. 

"  O  where,  and  0  where 
Is  mj'  bonnie  laddie  gone  ?  "  — Old  Song. 

One  day,  as  I  was  going  by 

That  part  of  Holborn  christened  High, 

I  heard  a  loud  and  sudden  cry 

That  chilled  my  very  blood ; 
And  lo  !  from  out  a  dirty  alley, 
Where  pigs  and  Irish  wont  to  rally, 
I  saw  a  crazy  woman  sail}-, 

Bedaubed  with  grease  and  mud. 
She  turned  her  East,  she  turned  her  West 
Staring  like  Pythoness  possest, 
With  streaming  hair  and  heaving  breast, 

As  one  stark  mad  with  grief. 
This  way  and  that  she  wildly  ran, 
Jostling  with  woman  and  with  man  — 
Her  right  hand  held  a  frying-pan, 

The  left  a  lump  of  beef. 


476  THE   L(,ST   HEIB. 

At  last  her  frenzy  seemed  to  reach 
A  point  just  capable  of  speech, 
And  with  a  tone,  almost  a  screech, 

As  wild  as  ocean  birds, 
Or  female  Ranter  moved  to  preach, 

She  gave  her  "sorrow  words.'' 

"O  Lord!  O  dear,  my  heart  will  break,  I  shall  gj  stick 

stark  staring  wild ! 
Has  ever  a  one  seen  any  thing  about  the  streets  .ike  a 

crying  lost-looking  child  P 
Lawk  help  me,  I  don't  know  where  to  look,  or  to  run,  if 

I  only  knew  which  way  — 
A  Child  as  is  lost  about  London  streets,  and  especially 

Seven  Dials,  is  a  needle  in  a  bottle  of  hay. 
I  am  all  in  a  quiver  —  get  out  of  my  sight,  do,  you 

wretch,  you  little  Kitty  M'Xab  ! 
You  promised  to  have   half  an  eye  to  him,  you  know 

you  did,  you  dirty  deceitful  young  drab. 
The  last  time  as  ever  I  see  him,  poor  thing,  was  with 

my  own  blessed  Motherly  eyes, 
Sitting  as  good  as  gold  in  the  gutter,  a  playing  at  making 

little  dirt  pics. 
I  wonder  he  left  the  court,  where  he  was  hetter  off  than 

all  the  other  young  boys, 
With  two  bricks,  an  old  shoe,  nine  oyster-shells,  and  a 

dead  kitten  by  way  of  toys. 
When  his  Father  comes  home,  and  he  always  comes 

home  as  sure  as  ever  the  clock  strikes  one, 
He'll  be  rampant,  he  will,  at  his  child  being  lost;  and 

the  beef  and  the  inguns  not  done ! 
La  bless  you,  good  folks,  mind  your  own  concams,  and 

don't  be  making  a  mob  in  the  street ; 
0  Serjeant  M'Farlane  !  you  have  not  come  across  my 

poor  little  boy,  have  you,  in  your  beat  ? 


THE    LOST    HEIR.  477 

Do,  good  people,  move  on !  don't  stand  staring  at  me 

like  a  parcel  of  stupid  stuck  pigs  ; 
Saints  forbid  !  but  he's  p'r'aps  been  inviggled  away  up  a 

court  for  the  sake  of  his  clothes  by  the  priggs; 
He'd  a  very  good  jacket,  for  certain,  for  I  bought  it  my- 
self for  a  shilling  one  day  in  J  tag  Fair ; 
And  his  trousers  considering  not  very  much  patched,  and 

red  plush,  they  was  once  his  Father's  best  pair. 
His  shirt,  it's  very  lucky  I'd  got  washing  in  the  tub,  or 

that  might  have  gone  with  the  rest  ; 
But  he'd  got  on  a  very  good  pinafore  with  only  two  slits 

and  a  burn  on  the  breast. 
He'd  a  goodish  sort  of  hat,  if  the  crown  was  sewed  in, 

and  not  quite  so  much  j  igged  at  the  brim. 
With  one  shoe  on,  and  the  oth(  r  shoe  is  a  boot,  and  not 

a  fit,  and  you'll  know  by  that  if  it's  him. 
Except  being  so  well  dressed,  my  mind  Mould  misgive, 

some  old  beggar  woman  in  want  of  an  orphan 
Had  borrowed  the  child  to  go  a  begging  with ;  but  I'd 

rather  see  him  laid  out  in  his  coffin ! 
Do,  good  people,  move  on;  such  a  rabble  of  boys!  I'll 

break  every  bone  of  'em  I  come  near ; 
Go    home  —  you're   spilling   the    porter  —  go   home  — 

Tommy  Jones,  go  along  with  your  beer. 
This  day  is  the  sorrowful  lest  day  of  my  life,  ever  since 

my  name  was  Betty  Morgan. 
Them  vile   Savoyards!   they  lost   him   once   before   all 

alonjr  of  following  a  Monkey  and  an  Organ: 
O  my  Billy  —  my  head  will  turn  right  round  —  if  he's 

got  kiddynapped  with  them  Italians 
They'll   make  him  a  plaster  parish  image  boy,  they  will, 

the  outlandish  tatterdemalions. 
Billy  —  where  arc  you,  Billy  ?  —  I'm  as  hoarse  as  a  crow, 

with  screaming  for  ye,  you  young  sorrow  ! 


478  THE    LOST    1IEIK. 

And  shan't  have  half  a  voice,  no  more  I  shan't,  for  crying 
fresh  herrings  to-morrow. 

0  Billy,  you're  bursting  my  heart  in  two,  and  my  life 

won't  be  of  no  more  vally, 

If  I'm  to  see  other  folks'  darlins,  and  none  of  mine,  play- 
ing like  angels  in  our  alley. 

And  what  shall  I  do  but  cry  out  my  eyes,  when  I  looks 
at  the  old  three-legged  chair 

As  Billy  used  to  make  coach  and  horses  of,  and  there 
a'nt  no  Billy  there  ! 

1  would  run  all  the  wide  world  over  to  find  him,  if  I  only 

knowed  where  to  run  ; 
Little   Murphy,  now  I   remember,  was   once  lost  for  a 

month  through  stealing  a  penny-bun  — 
The  Lord  forbid  of  any  child  of  mine!  I  think  it  would 

kill  me  raily 
To  find  my  Bill  holdin'  up  his  little  innocent  hand  at  the 

Old  Bailey. 
For  though  I  say  it  as  oughtn't,  yet  I  will  say,  you  may 

search  for  miles  and  mileses 
And  not  find  one  better  brought  up,  and  more  pretty 

behaved,  from  one  end  to  t'other  of  St.  Giles's. 
And  if  I  called  him  a  beauty,  it's  no  lie,  but  only  as  a 

Mother  ought  to  speak ; 
You  never  set  eyes  on  a  more  handsomer  face,  only  it 

hasn't  been  washed  for  a  week  ; 
As  for  hair,  though  it's  red,  it's  the  most  nicest  hair  when 

I've  time  to  just  show  it  the  comb  ; 
I'll  owe  'em  fiye  pounds,  and  a  blessing  besides,  as  will 

only  bring  him  safe  and  sound  home. 
He's  blue  eyes,  and  not  to  be  called  a  squint,  though  a 

little  cast  he's  certainly  got; 
And  his  nose  is  still  a  good  un,  though  the  bridge  is 

broke,  by  his  falling  on  a  pewter  pint  pot ; 


THE    LOST    HEIR.  479 

He's  got  the  most  elegant  wide  mouth  in  the  world,  and 

very  large  teeth  for  his  age ; 
And  quite  as  fit  as  Mrs.  Murdockson's  child  to  play 

Cupid  on  the  Drury  Lane  Stage. 
And  then  he  has  got  such  dear  winning  ways  —  but  O  I 

never  never  shall  see  him  no  more  ! 
0  dear !  to  think  of  losing  him  just  after  nussing  him 

back  from  death's  door  ! 
Only  the  very  last  month,  when  the  windfalls,  hang  'em, 

was  at  twenty  a  penny  ! 
And  the  threepence  he'd  got  by  grottoing  was  spent  in 

plums,  and  sixty  for  a  child  is  too  many. 
And  the  Cholera  man  came  and  whitewashed  us  all,  and, 

drat  him,  made  a  seize  of  our  hog. — 
It's  no  use  to  send  the  Cryer  to  cry  him  about,  he's  such 

a  blunderin'  drunken  old  doe  ; 
The  last  time  he  was  fetched  to  find  a  lost  child,  he  was 

guzzling  with  his  bell  at  the  Crown, 
And  went  and  cried   a  boy  instead  of  a  girl,  for  a  dis- 
tracted Mother  and  Father  about  Town. 
Billy  —  where  are  you,  Billy,  I  say  ?  come,  Billy,  come 

home,  to  your  best  of  Mothers ! 
I'm  scared  when  I  think  of  them  Cabrolcys,  they  drive 

so,  they'd  run  over  their  own  Sisters  and  Brothers. 
Or  may  be  he's  stole  by  some  dumbly  sweeping  wretch, 

to  stick  fast  in  narrow  lines  and  what  not. 
And  be  poked  up  behind  with  a  picked  pointed  pole,  when 

the  soot  has  ketched,  and  the  chimin's  red  hot. 

0  I'd  give  the  whole  wide  world,  if  the  world  was  mine, 

to  clap  my  two  longin'  eyes  on  his  face. 
For  he's  my  darlin  of  darlins,  and  if  he  don't  soon  come 
back,  you'll  see  me  drop  stone  dead  on  the  place. 

1  only  wish  I'd  got  him  safe  in  these  two  Motherly  arms, 

and  wouldn't  I  hug  him  and  kiss  him  ! 


480  THOSE    EVENING    BELLS. 

Lauk !  I  never  knew  what  a  precious  he  was  —  but  a 
child  don't  not  feel  like  a  child  till  you  miss  him. 

Why,  there  he  is  !  Punch  and  Judy  hunting,  the  young 
wretch,  it's  that  Billy  as  sartin  as  sin  ! 

But  let  me  get  him  home,  with  a  good  grip  of  his  hair,  and 
I'm  blest  if  he  shall  have  a  whole  bone  in  his  skin ! 


THOSE   EVENING  BELLS. 

"  I'D    BE    A    PARODY." 

Those  Evening  Bells,  those  Evening  Bells, 
How  many  a  tale  their  music  tells, 
Of  Yorkshire  takes  and  crumpets  prime, 
And  letters  only  just  in  time  !  — 

The  Muffin-boy  has  passed  away, 
The  Postman  gone  —  and  I  must  pay, 
For  down  below  Deaf  Mary  dwells, 
And  does  not  hear  those  Evening  Bella. 

And  so  'twill  be  when  she-  is  gone, 
That  tuneful  peal  will  still  ring  on, 
And  other  maids  with  timely  yells 
Forget  to  stay  those  Evening  Bells. 


EPPING    HUNT.  481 

EPPIXG    HUNT. 

"  On  Monday  they  began  to  hunt."  —  Chevy  Chase- 

John  Huggins  was  as  bold  a  man 

As  trade  did  ever  know, 
A  warehouse  good  he  had,  that  stood 

Hard  by  the  church  of  Bow. 

There  people  bought  Hutch  cheeses  round, 

And  single  Glos'ter  flat,  — 
And  English  butter  in  a  lump, 

And  Irish  —  in  a. pat. 

Six  days  a  week  beheld  him  stand, 

His  business  next  his  heart, 
At  counter  with  his  apron  tied 

About  his  counter-part. 

The  seventh  in  a  sluice-house  box, 

He  took  his  pipe  and  pot ; 
On  Sundays  for  eel-piety, 

A  very  noted  spot. 

Ah,  blest  if  he  had  never  gone 

Beyond  its  rural  shed  ! 
One  Easter-tide,  some  evil  guide 

Put  Epping  in  his  head  ; 

Epping  for  butter  justly  famed, 

And  pork  in  sausage  popt  ; 
Where  winter  time,  or  summer  time, 

Pig's  flesh  is  always  chopt. 


482  EPPING   HUNT. 

But  famous  more,  as  annals  tell, 

Because  of  Easter  Chase  ; 
There  ev'ry  year,  'twixt  dog  and  deer, 

There  is  a  gallant  race. 

With  Monday's  sun  John  Huggins  lose, 

And  slapt  his  leather  thigh, 
And  sang  the  burden  of  the  song, 

"  This  day  a  stag  must  die." 

For  all  the  livelong  day  before, 

And  all  the  night  in  bed, 
Like  Beckford,  lie  had  nourished  "Thoughts 

On  Hunting"  in  his  lie. id. 

Of  horn  and  morn,  and  hark  and  bark, 
And  echo's  answering  sounds, 

All  poets'  wit  hath  every  writ 
In  dog-rel  verse  of  hounds. 

Alas  !  there  was  no  warning  voice 

To  whisper  in  his  tar. 
Thou  art  a  fool  in  leaving  Cheap 

To  go  and  hunt  the  deer ! 

No  thought  he  had  of  twisted  spine, 

Or  broken  arms  or  legs  ; 
Not  chicken-hearted  he,  although 

'Twas  whispered  of  his  eggs ! 

Ride  out  he  would,  and  hunt  be  would, 

Nor  dreamt  of  ending  ill ; 
Mayhap  with  Dr.  I<'i<l<>nt's  fee, 

And  Surgeon  Hunter's  bill. 


EPPING    HUNT.  48b 

So  he  drew  on  his  Sunday  boots, 

Of  lustre  superfine  ; 
The  liquid  black  they  wore  that  day, 

Was  WaiTen-ted  to  shine. 

His  yellow  buckskins  fitted  close, 

As  once  upon  a  stag  ; 
Thus  well  equipt  he  gaily  skipt, 

At  once,  upon  his  nag. 

But  first  to  him  that  held  the  rein, 

A  crown  he  nimbly  flung  ; 
For  holding  of  the  horse  ?  —  why,  no  — - 

For  holding  of  his  tongue. 

To  say  the  horse  was  Huggins'  own, 

Would  only  be  a  brag  ; 
His  neighbor  Fig  and  he  went  halves, 

Like  Centaurs,  in  a  nag. 

And  he  that  day  had  got  the  gray. 

Unknown  to  brother  cit ; 
The  horse  he  knew  would  never  tellP 

Although  it  was  a  tit. 

A  well-bred  horse  he  was,  I  wis, 

As  he  began  to  show, 
By  quickly  "  rearing  up  within 

The  way  he  ought  to  go." 

But  Huggins,  like  a  wary  itiitn, 

Was  ne'er  from  saddle  cast  5 
Resolved,  by  going  very  slow, 

On  sitting  very  fast. 


484 


EPPING    HUNT. 

And  so  he  jogged  to  Tot'n'am  Cross, 
An  ancient  town  well  known, 

Where  Edward  went  for  Eleanor 
In  mortar  and  in  stone. 

A  royal  game  of  fox  nnd  goose, 

To  play  on  such  a  loss  ; 
Wherever  she  set  down  her  oris, 

Thereby  lie  put  a  cross. 

Now  Huggins  had  a  crony  here, 

That  lived  beside  the  way  ; 
One  that  had  promised  sure  to  be 

His  comrade  for  the  day. 

Whereas  the  man  had  changed  his  mind, 

Meanwhile  upon  the  case! 
And  meaning  not  to  hunt  at  all, 

Had  gone  to  Enfield  Chase. 

For  why,  his  spouse  had  made  him  vow 

To  let  a  game  alone, 
Where  folks  that  ride  a  bit  of  blood, 

May  break  a  bit  of  bone. 

"  Now,  be  his  wife  a  plague  for  life  ! 

A  coward  sure  is  he  :  " 
Then  Huggins  turned  his  horse's  head, 

And  crossed  the  bridge  of  Lea. 

Thence  slowly  on  through  Laytonstones 

Past  many  a  Quaker's  box, 
No  friends  to  hunters  after  deer 

Though  followers  of  a  Fox. 


Eri'INC    HUNT.  485 

And  many  a  score  behind  —  before  — 

The  self-same  route  inclined, 
And  minded  all  to  march  one  way, 

Made  one  great  march  of  mind. 

Gentle  and  simple,  he  and  she, 

And  swell,  and  blood,  and  prig; 
And  some  had  carts,  and  some  a  chaise, 

According  to  their  gig. 

Some  long-eared  jacks,  some  knacker's  hacks, 

(However  odd  it  sounds,) 
Let  out  that  day  to  hunt,  instead 

Of  going  to  the  hounds! 

And  some  had  horses  of  their  own, 

And  some  were  forced  to  job  it  : 
And  some,  while  they  inclined  to  Hunt, 

Betook  themselves  to  Cob-it. 

All  sorts  of  vehicles  and  vans, 

Bad,  middling,  and  the  smart  ; 
Here  rolled  along  the  gay  barouche, 

And  there  a  dirty  cart  ! 

And  lo  !  a  cart  that  held  a  squad 

Of  costermonger  line  ; 
With  one  poor  hack,  like  Pegasus, 

That  slaved  for  all  the  Nine! 

Yet  marvel  not  at  any  load, 

That  any  horse  might  drag; 
When  ail,  that  morn,  at  once  were  drawn 

Together  by  a  stag  ! 


486  EPPIXG    HUNT. 

Now  when  they  saw  John  Huggins  go 

At  such  a  sober  pace ; 
"  Hallo  !  "  cried  they,  "  come,  trot  away, 

You'll  never  see  the  chase  !  " 


But  John,  as  grave  as  any  judge, 
Made  answers  quite  as  blunt  ; 

"  It  will  be  time  enough  to  trot, 
When  I  begin  to  hunt !  " 

And  so  he  paced  to  Woodford  Wells, 
Where  many  a  horseman  met, 

And  letting  go  the  reins,  of  course, 
Prepared  for  heavy  wet. 

And  lo!  within  the  crowded  door 
Stood  Rounding,  jovial  elf; 

Here  shall  the  Muse  frame  no  excuse, 
But  frame  the  man  himself. 

A  snow-white  head,  a  merry  eye, 

A  cheek  of  jolly  blush  ; 
A  claret  tint  laid  on  by  health, 

With  Master  Reynard's  brush; 

A  hearty  frame,  a  courteous  bow, 
The  prince  he  learned  it  from  ; 

His  age  about  threescore  and  ten, 
And  there  you  have  Old  Tom. 

In  merriest  key  I  trow  was  he, 

So  many  guests  to  boast ; 
So  certain  congregations  meet, 

And  elevate  the  host. 


EPPING   HUNT.  487 

"Now  welcome,  lads,"  quoth  he,  "and  prads, 

You're  all  in  glorious  luck : 
Old  Robin  has  a  run  to-day, 

A  noted  forest  buck. 

"Fair  Mead  's  the  place,  where  Bob  and  Tom, 

In  red,  already  ride  ; 
'Tis  but  a  step,  and  on  a  horse 

You  soon  may  go  a  stride.'" 

So  off  they  scampered,  man  and  horse, 

As  time  and  temper  pressed  — 
But  Huggins,  hitching  on  a  tree, 

Branched  off  from  all  the  rest. 

Howbeit  he  tumbled  down  in  time 

To  join  with  Tom  and  Bob, 
All  in  Fair  Mead,  which  held  that  day 

Its  own  fair  meed  of  mob. 

Idlers  to  wit  —  no  Guardians  some, 

Of  Tattlers  in  a  squeeze  ; 
Ramblers,  in  heavy  carts  and  vans, 

Spectators,  up  in  trees. 

Butchers  on  barks  of  butchers'  hacks, 

That  shambled  to  and  fro! 
Bakers  intent  upon  a  buck, 

Neglectful  of  the  douyh! 

Change  Alley  Bears  to  speculate, 

As  usual,  for  a  fall  ; 
And  green  ami  scarlet  runners,  such 

As  never  climbed  a  wall ! 


4 


488  EPPING    HINT. 

Twas  strange  to  think  what  difference 

A  single  creature  made  ; 
A  single  slag  had  caused  a  whole 

Stagnation  in  their  trade. 

Now  Hugging  from  his  saddle  rose, 

And  in  the  stirrups  stood  : 
And  lo  !  a  little  cart  that  came 

Hard  by  a  little  wood. 

In  shape  like  half  a  hearse,  —  though  not 

For  corpses  in  the  least ; 
For  this  contained  the  deer  a/ice, 

And  not  the  dear  deceased! 

And  now  began  a  sudden  stir, 

And  then  a  sudden  shout, 
Tlie  prison-doors  were  opened  wide, 

And  Robin  bounded  out ! 

His  antlered  ^ad  shone  blue  and  red, 
Bedecked  with  ribbons  fine  ; 

Like  other  bucks  that  come  to  'list 
The  hawbucks  in  the  line. 

One  curious  gaze  of  wild  amaze, 
He  turned  and  shortly  took  ; 

Then  gently  ran  adown  the  mead, 
And  bounded  o'er  the  brook. 

Now  Huggins,  standing  far  aloof, 

Had  never  seen  the  deer, 
Till  all  at  once  he  saw  the  beast 

Come  charging  in  his  rear. 


EPPINO    HUNT.  489 

Away  be  went,  and  many  a  score 

Of  riders  did  the  same, 
On  horse  and  ass  —  like  high  and  low 

And  Jack  pursuing  game  ! 

Good  Lord  !  to  see  the  riders  now, 

Thrown  off  with  sudden  whirl, 
A  score  within  the  purling  brook, 

Enjoyed  their  "early  purl." 

A  score  were  sprawling  on  the  grass, 

And  beavers  fell  in  showers  ; 
There  was  another  Floorer  there, 

Beside  the  Queen  of  Flowers  ! 

Some  lost  their  stirrups,  some  their  whips, 

Some  had  no  caps  to  show  ; 
But  t't'w,  like  Charles  at  Charing  Cross, 

Kode  on  in  Statue  quo. 

"  0  dear  !   O  dear  !  "  now  might  you  hear, 

"  I've  surely  broke  a  hone  ;" 
"  My  head  is  sore,"  —  with  many  more 

Such  speeches  from  the  thrown. 

Howbeit  their  waitings  never  moved 

The  witlc  Satanic  clan, 
Who  grinned,  as  once  the  Devil  grinned, 

To  see  the  fall  of  Man. 

And  hunters  good,  that  understood, 

Their  laughter  knew  no  bounds, 
To  sec  the  horses  "  throwing  off," 

So  long  before  the  hounds. 


f 


490  EPPINO   HUNT. 

For  deer  must  have  due  course  of  law, 

Like  men  the  Courts  among ; 
Before  those  Barristers  the  dogs 


And  now  Old  Robin's  foes  were  set, 
That  fatal  taint  to  find, 

That  always  is  scent  after  him, 
Yet  always  left  behind. 

And  here  observe  how  dog  and  man 

A  different  temper  shows, 
What  hound  resents  that  he  is  sent 

To  follow  his  own  nose  ? 

Towler  and  Jowler  —  howlers  all, 
No  single  tongue  was  mute  ; 

The  stag  had  led  a  hart,  and  lo  ! 
The  whole  pack  followed  suit. 

No  spur  he  lacked,  fear  stuck  a  knife 
And  fork  in  either  haunch  ; 

And  every  dog  he  knew  had  got 
An  eye-tooth  to  his  paunch  ! 

Away,  away  !  he  scudded  like 

A  ship  before  the  gale  ; 
Now  flew  to  "  hills  we  know  not  of," 

Now,  nun-like,  took  the  vale. 

Another  squadron  charging  now, 
Went  off  at  furious  pitch  ;  — ■ 

A  perfect  Tarn  o'  Shanter  mob, 
Without  a  single  witch. 


EPP1NG   HUNT.  49J 

But  who  was  he  with  flying  skirts, 

A  hunter  did  indorse. 
And  like  a  poet  seemed  to  ride 

Upon  a  winged  horse,  — 

A  whipper  in  ?  —  no  whippei*  in  : 

A  huntsman  ?  no  such  soul  : 
A  connoisseur,  or  amateur  ? 

Why  yes,  —  a  Horse  Patrol. 

A  member  of  police,  for  whom 

The  county  found  a  nag, 
And,  like  Acteon  in  the  tale, 

He  found  himself  in  stag  ! 

Away  they  went  then  dog  and  deer, 

And  hunters  all  away,  — 
The  maddest  horses  never  knew 

Mad  sluggers  such  as  they  ! 

Some  gave  a  shout,  some  rolled  about, 

And  anticked  as  they  rode, 
And  butchers  whistled  on  their  curs, 

And  milkmen  tally-hoed. 

About  two  score  there  were,  not  more, 

That  galloped  in  the  race  ! 
The  rest,  alas!  lay  on  the  grass, 

As  once  in  Chevy  Chase  ! 

But  even  those  that  galloped  on, 

Were  fewer  every  minute,  — 
The  field  kept  getting  more  select, 

Each  thicket  served  to  thin  it. 


492 


EPPING   HUNT. 


For  some  pulled  up,  and  left  the  hunt, 

Some  fetl  in  miry  bogs, 
And  vainly  rose  and  "  ran  a  muck," 

To  overtake  the  dogs. 

And  some,  in  charging  hurdle  stakes, 

Were  left  bereft  of  sense. 
What  else  could  be  premised  of  blades 

That  never  learned  to  fence  ? 

But  Hounding,  Tom,  and  Bo!),  no  gate, 
Nor  hedge,  nor  ditch,  could  stay ; 

O'er  all  they  went,  and  did  the  work 
Of  leap  years  in  a  day. 

And  by  their  side  see  Huggins  ride, 

As  fast  as  he  could  speed  ; 
For,  like  Mazeppa,  he  was  quite 

At  mercy  of  his  steed. 

No  means  he  had,  by  timely  check, 

The  gallop  to  remit, 
For  firm  and  fast,  between  his  teeth, 

The  biter  held  the  bit. 

Trees  raced  along,  all  Essex  fled 

Beneath  him  as  he  sate,  — 
He  never  saw  a  county  go 

At  such  a  county  rate ! 

"Hold  hard!  hold  hard  !  you'll  lame  the  dogs: 

Quoth  Huggins,  "  So  I  do,  — 
I've  got  the  saddle  well  in  hand, 

And  hold  as  hard  as  you  !  " 


F.PriXG    UUN'T. 


493 


Good  Lord  !  to  see  him  vide  along, 

And  throw  Ids  arms  about, 
As  if  with  stitches  in  the  side, 

That  he  was  drawing'  out  ! 

And  now  lie  bounded  up  and  down, 

Now  like  a  jelly  shook  ; 
Till  bumped  and  galled  —  yet  not  where  Gall 

For  bumps  did  ever  look  ! 

And  rowing  with  his  legs  the  while, 

As  tars  are  apt  to  ride  ; 
With  every  kick  he  gave  a  prick, 

Deep  in  the  horse's  side  ! 

But  soon  the  horse  was  well  avenged, 

For  cruel  smart  of  spurs, 
For,  riding  through  a  moor,  he  pitched 

His  master  in  a  furze  ! 

Where  sharper  set  than  hunger  is 

He  squatted  all  forlorn  ; 
And  like  a  bird  was  singing  out 

While  sitting  on  a  thorn  ! 

Right  glad  was  he,  as  well  might  be, 

Such  cushion  to  resign  : 
"  Possession  is  nine  points,"  but  his 

Seemed  mere  than  ninety-nine. 

Yet  worse  than  all  the  prickly  points 

That  entered  in  his  skin, 
His  nag  was  running  off  t lie  while 

The  thorns  were  running  in  ! 


494 


EPPING   HUNT. 

Now  had  a  Papist  seen  his  sport, 

Thus  laid  upon  the  shelf, 
Although  no  horse  he  had  to  cross, 

He  might  have  crossed  himself. 

Yet  surely  still  the  wind  is  ill 
That  none  can  say  is  fair ; 

A  jolly  wight  there  was,  that  rode 
Upon  a  sorry  mare  ! 

A  sorry  mare,  that  surely  came 
Of  pagan  blood  and  bone  ; 

For  down  upon  her  knees  she  went 
To  many  a  stock  and  stone  ! 

Now  seeing  Muggins'  nag  adrift, 
This  farmer,  shrewd  and  sage, 

Resolved,  by  changing  horses  here, 
To  hunt  another  stage  ! 

Though  felony,  yet  who  would  let 

Another's  horse  alone, 
Whose  neck  is  placed  hi  jeopardy 

By  riding  on  his  own  ? 

And  yet  the  conduct  of  the  man 
Seemed  honest-like  and  fair  ; 

For  he  seemed  willing,  horse  and  aU 
To  go  before  the  mare! 

So  up  on  Huggins'  horse  he  got, 

And  swiftly  rode  away, 
While  Huggins  mounted  on  the  mare, 

Done  brown  upon  a  bay  ! 


EPPING    HUNT.  495 


And  off  they  set,  in  double  chase, 
For  such  was  fortune's  whim, 

The  farmer  rode  to  hunt  the  stag, 
And  Huggins  hunted  him  ! 


*&»* 


Alas  !  with  one  that  rode  so  well 

In  vain  it  was  to  strive  ; 
A  dab  was  he,  as  dabs  should  be  — 

All  leaping  and  alive  ! 

And  here  of  Xature's  kindly  care 

Behold  a  curious  proof, 
As  n-ags  are  meant  to  leap,  she  puts 

A  frog  in  every  hoof  ! 

Whereas  the  mare,  although  her  sharb 

She  had  of  hoof  and  frog, 
On  coming  to  a  gate  stopped  short 

As  stiff  as  any  log ; 

Whilst  Hugsins  in  the  stirrup  stood 
With  neck  like  neck  of  crane, 

As  sings  the  Scottish  song  —  "  to  see 
The  gate  his  hart  had  gane." 

And  lo  !  the  dim  and  distant  hunt 

Diminished  in  a  trice  : 
The  steeds,  like  Cinderella's  team, 

Seemed  dwindling  into  mice  ; 

And,  far  remote,  each  scarlet  coat 
Soon  flitted  like  a  spark,  — 

Though  still  the  forest  murmured  back 
An  echo  of  the  bark  ! 


496 


EPPINQ    Ill'NT. 

But  sad  at  soul  John  Huggins  turned  : 

No  comfort  could  he  find  ; 
Whilst  thus  the  "Hunting  Chorus"  sped, 

To  stay  five  bars  behind. 

For  though  by  dint  of  spur  he  got 

A  leap  in  spite  of  fate  — 
Howbeit  there  was  no  toll  at  all, 

They  could  not  clear  the  gate. 

And,  like  Fitzjumes,  he  cursed  the  hunt, 

And  sorely  cursed  the  day, 
And  mused  a  new  Gray's  elegy 

On  his  departed  gray  ! 

Now  many  a  sign  at  Woodford  town 

Its  Inn-vitation  tells : 
But  Huggins,  full  of  ills,  of  course 

Betook  him  to  the  Wells, 

Where  Rounding  tried  to  cheer  him  up 

With  many  a  merry  laugh  : 
But  1  lupins  thought  of  neighbor  Fig, 

And  called  for  half-and-half. 

Yet,  'spite  of  drink,  he  could  not  blink 

Remembrance  of  his  loss  ; 
To  drown  a  care  like  his,  required 

Enough  to  drown  a  horse. 

When  thus  forlorn,  a  merry  horn 
Struck  up  without  the  door,  — 

The  mounted  mob  were  all  returned ; 
The  Epping  Hunt  was  o'er ! 


EPPING   HUNT.  497 

And  many  a  horse  was  taken  out 

Of  saddle  and  of  shaft  ; 
And  men,  by  dint  of  drink,  became 

The  only  "  beasts  of  draught !  " 

For  now  began  a  harder  run 

On  wine,  and  gin,  and  beer  ; 
And  overtaken  man  discussed 

The  overtaken  deer. 

How  far  he  ran,  and  eke  how  fast, 

And  how  at  bay  he  stood, 
Deerlike,  resolved  to  sell  his  life 

As  dearly  as  he  could  ; 

And  how  the  hunters  stood  aloof, 

Regardful  of  their  lives, 
And  shunned  a  beast,  whose  very  horns 

They  knew  could  handle  knives  ' 

How  Huggins  stood  when  he  was-  rubbed 

By  help  and  ostler  kind, 
And  when  they  cleaned  the  clay  before, 

How  worse  "remained  behind." 

And  one,  how  he  had  found  a  horse 

Adrift  —  a  goodly  gray  ! 
And  kindly  rode  the  nag,  for  fear 

The  nag  should  go  astray. 

Now  Huggins,  when  he  heard  the  tale, 

Jumped  up  with  sudden  glee  ; 
" A  goodly  gray!   why,  then,  I  say 

That  gray  belongs  to  me ! 


t 


<98  TIIK  STAG-EYED  LADY. 

"Let  me  indorse  again  my  horse, 
Delivered  safe  and  sound; 
And  gladly  I  will  give  the  man, 
A  bottle  and  a  pound  !  " 

The  wine  was  drunk,  —  the  money  paid, 
Though  not  without  remorse, 

To  pay  another  man  so  much, 
For  riding  on  his  horse. 

And  let  the  chase  again  take  place, 
For  many  a  long,  long  year, 

John  Huggins  will  not  ride  again 
To  hunt  the  Epping  Deer  ! 

MORAL. 

Thus  pleasure  oft  eludes  our  grasp, 
Just  when  we  think  to  grip  her; 

And  hunting  after  happiness, 
We  only  hunt  a  slipper. 


THE    STAG-EYED    LADY. 

A   MOORISH   TALE. 

Scheherazade  immediately  began  the  following  story: 
Ali  BEN  A  LI  (did  you  never  read 

His  wondrous  acts  that  chronicles  relate, — 
How  there  was  one  in  pity  might  exceed 

The  sack  of  Troy?)     Magnificent  he  sate 
Upon  the  throne  of  greatness  —  great  indeed, 

For  those  that  he  had  under  him  were  great- 
The  horse  he  rode  on,  shod  with  silver  nails, 
Was  a  Bashaw  —  Bashaws  have  horses'  tails. 


THE   STAG-EYED   LADY.  499 

AH  was  cruel  —  a  most  cruel  one  ! 

Tis  rumored  he  had  strangled  his  own  mother  — 
Howbeit  such  deeds  of  darkness  he  had  done, 

'Tis  thought  he  would  have  slain  his  elder  brother 
And  sister  too  —  but  happily  that  none 

Did  live  within  harm's  length  of  one  another, 
Else  he  had  sent  the  Sun  in  all  its  blaze 
To  endless  night,  and  shortened  the  Moon's  days. 

Despotic  power,  that  mars  a  weak  man's  wit, 
And  makes  a  bad  man  —  absolutely  bad, 

Made  Ali  wicked  — •  to  a  fault :  —  'tis  fit 

Monarchs  should  have  some  check-strings;  but  he  had 

No  curb  upon  his  will  —  no,  not  a  bit  — 

Wherefore  he  did  not  reign  well  —  and  full  glad 

His  slaves  had  been  to  hang  him  —  but  they  faltered 

And  let  him  live  unhanged  —  and  still  unaltered, 

Until  he  got  a  sage-bush  of  a  beard, 

Wherein  an  Attic  owl  might  roost  —  a  trail 

Of  bristly  hair  —  that,  honored  and  unsheared, 
Grew  downward  like  old  women  and  cow's  tail: 

Being  a  sign  of  age  —  some  gray  appeared, 

Mingling  with  duskier  brown  its  warnings  pale; 

But  yet  not  so  poetic  as  when  Time 

Comes  like  Jack  Frost,  and  whitens  it  in  rime. 

Ben  AH  took  the  hint,  and  much  did  vex 

His  royal  bosom  that  he  had  no  son, 
No  living  child  of  the  more  noble  sex, 

To  stand  in  his  Morocco  shoes  —  not  one 
To  make  a  negro-pollard  —  or  tread  necks 

When   he   was   gone  —  doomed,  when  his  days  were 
done, 
To  leave  the  very  city  of  his  fame 
Without  an  Ali  to  keep  up  his  name. 


500  TIIK  STAG-EYED   LADY. 

Therefore  he  chose  a  lady  for  his  love, 

Singling  from  out  the  herd  one  stag-eyed  dear; 

So  called,  because  her  lustrous  eyes,  above 
All  eyes,  were  dark,  and  timorous,  and  clear  ; 

Then,  through  his  Muftis  piously  he  strove, 

And  drummed  with  proxy-prayers  Mohammed's  ear, 

Knowing  a  boy  for  certain  must  come  of  it, 

Or  else  he  was  not  praying  to  his  Profit. 

Beer  will  grow  mothery,  and  ladies  fair 

Will  grow  like  beer;  so  did  that  stag-eyed  dame: 

Ben  Ali,  hoping  for  a  son  and  heir, 

Boyed  up  his  hopes,  and  even  chose  a  name 

Of  mighty  hero  that  his  child  should  bear; 
He  made  so  certain  ere  his  chicken  came  ; 

But  oh  !  all  worldly  wit  is  little  worth, 

Nor  knoweth  what  to-morrow  will  bring  forth. 


'O 


To-morrow  came,  and  with  to-morrow's  sun 
A  little  daughter  to  this  world  of  sins  ;  — 

ilftss-fortunes  never  come  alone  —  so  one 
Brought  on  another,  like  a  pair  of  twins: 

Twins!   female  twins!  —  it  was  enough  to  stun 

Their  little  wits,  and  scare  them  from  their  skins, 

To  hear  their  father  stamp,  and  curse,  and  swear, 

Pulling  his  beard  because  he  had  no  heir. 

Then  strove  their  stag-eyed  mother  to  calm  clown 
This  his  paternal  rage,  and  thus  addrest: 

"  0  !  Most  Serene  !  why  dost  thou  stamp  and  frown, 
And  box  the  compass  of  the  royal  chest? 

Ah  !  thou  wilt  mar  that  portly  trunk,  I  own 
1  love  to  gaze  on  !  —  Pr'ythee,  thou  hadst  best 

Pocket  thy  fists.     Nay,  love,  if  you  so  thin 

Your  beard,  you'll  want  a  wig  upon  your  chin!" 


THE  STAG-EYED  LADY. 


501 


But  not  her  words,  nor  e'en  her  tears,  could  slack 
The  quicklime  of  his  rage,  that  hotter  grew  : 

He  called  his  slaves  to  bring  an  ample  sack 
Wherein  a  woman  might  be  poked  —  a  few 

Dark  grimly  men  felt  pity  and  looked  black 
At  this  sad  order  ;  but  their  slaveships  knew 

When  any  dared  demur,  his  sword  so  bending 

Cut  off  the  "  head  and  front  of  their  offending." 

For  Ali  had  a  sword,  much  like  himself, 
A  crooked  blade,  guilty  of  human  gore  — 

The  trophies  it  had  lopped  from  many  an  elf 
Were  stuck  at  his  Acw/-quarters  by  the  score  — 

Nor  yet  in  peace  he  laid  it  on  the  shelf, 
But  jested  with  it,  and  his  wit  cut  sore; 

80  that  (as  they  of  Public  Houses  speak) 

He  often  did  his  dozen  butts  a  week. 

Therefore  his  slaves,  with  most  obedient  fears, 
Came  with  the  sack  the  lady  to  enclose  ; 

In  vain  from  her  stag-eyes  "the  big  round  tears 
Coursed  one  another  down  her  innocent  nose;" 

In  vain  her  tongue  wept  sorrow  in  their  ears; 
Though  there  were  some  felt  willing  to  oppose, 

Yet  when  their  In  ails  came  in  their  heads,  that  minute, 

Though  'twas  a  piteous  case,  they  put  her  in  it. 

And  when  the  sack  was  tied,  some  two  or  three 
Of  these  black  undertakers  slowly  brought  her 

To  a  kind  of  Moorish  Serpentine;  for  she 

Was  doomed  to  have  a  winding  .•<//<  it  of  water. 

Then  farewell,  earth — farewell  to  the  green  tree  — 
Farewell,  the  sun  —  the  moon  — each  little  daughter! 

She's  shot  from  oil'  the  shoulders  of  a  black, 

Like  a  bag  of  Wall's- hind  from  a  coalman's  back. 


502 


THF    STAG-FA'ED   LADY. 


The  waters  oped,  and  the  wide  sack  full-filled 
All  that  the  waters  oped,  as  down  it  fell ; 

Then  closed  the  wave,  and  then  the  surface  rilled 
A  ring  above  her,  like  a  water-knell ; 

A  moment  more,  and  all  its  face  was  stilled, 
And  not  a  guilty  heave  was  left  to  tell 

That  underneath  its  calm  and  blue  transparence 

A  dame  lay  drowned  in  her  sack,  like  Clarence. 

But  Heaven  beheld,  and  awful  witness  bore, 
The  moon  in  black  eclipse  deceased  that  night, 

Like  Desdemona  smothered  by  the  Moor  — 
The  lady's  natal  star  with  pale  affright 

Fainted  and  fell  —  and  what  were  stars  before, 
Turned  comets  as  the  tale  was  brought  to  light. 

And  all  looked  downward  on  the  fatal  wave, 

And  made  their  own  reflections  on  her  grave. 

Next  night  a  head  —  a  little  lady  head  — 

Pushed  through  the  waters  a  most  glassy  face, 

"With  weedy  tresses,  thrown  apart  and  spread, 
Combed  by  'live  ivory,  to  show  the  space 

Of  a  pale  forehead,  and  two  eyes  that  shed 
A  soft  blue  mist,  breathing  a  bloomy  grace 

Over  their  sleepy  lids  —  and  so  she  raised 

Her  aqtialine  nose  above  the  stream,  and  gazed. 

She  oped  her  lips  —  lips  of  a  gentle  blush, 

So  pale  it  seemed  near  drowned  to  a  white,  — 
She  oped  her  lips,  and  forth  there  sprang  a  gush 

Of  music  bubbling  through  the  surface  light; 
The  leaves  are  motionless,  the  breezes  hush 
l     To  listen  to  the  air — and  through  the  night 
There  come  these  word.--  of  a  most  plaintive  ditty, 
Sobbing  as  they  would  break  all  hearts  with  pity: 


A   LEGEND  OF  NAVARRE.  503 

THE   WATER   PERl's   SONG. 
Farewell,  farewell,  to  my  mother's  own  daughter, 

The  child  that  she  wet-nursed  is  lapped  in  the  wave; 
The  Mussel-man  coming  to  fish  in  this  water, 

Adds  a  tear  to  the  Hood  that  weeps  over  her  grave. 

This  sack  is  her  coffin,  this  water's  her  bier, 
This  grayish  bath-cloak  is  her  funeral  pall ; 

And,  stranger,  O  stranger  !  this  song  that  you  hear 
Is  her  epitaph,  elegy,  dirges,  and  all  ! 

Farewell,  farewell  to  the  child  of  Al  Hassan, 

My  mother's  own  daughter  —  the  last  of  her  race  — 

She's  a  corpse,  the  poor  body !  and  lies  in  this  basin, 
And  sleeps  in  the  water  that  washes  her  face. 


A    LEGEND    OF    NAVARRE. 

'Twas  in  the  reign  of  Lewis,  called  the  Great, 
^  As  one  may  read  on  his  triumphal  arches,  ' 
The  thing  befell  I'm  going  to  relate, 

In  curse  of  one  of  those  «  pomp'oso  "  marches 
He  loved  to  make,  like  any  gorgeous  Persian, 
, Partly  for  war,  anil  partly  for  diversion. 

Some  wag  had  put  it  in  the  royal  brain 

To  drop  a  visit  at  an  old  chateau, 
Quite  unexpected,  with  his  courtly  train  ; 
^  The  monarch  liked  it  — but  it  happened  so, 
That  Death  had  got  before  them  by  a  post, 
And  they  were  "  reckoning  without  their  host," 


504 


A   LEGEND  OK   SAVARRifi. 


"Who  died  exactly  as  a  child  should  die, 

Without  one  groan  or  a  convulsive  breath. 

Closing  without  one  pang  his  quiet  eye, 

Sliding  composedly  from  sleep  —  to  death  ; 

A  corpse  so  placid  ne'er  adorned  abed, 

lie  seemed  not  quite  —  but  only  rather  dead. 

All  night  the  widowed  Baroness  contrived 
To  shed  a  widow's  tears  ;  but  on  the  morrow 

Some  news  of  such  unusual  sort  arrived, 

There  came  strange  alteration  in  her  sorrow; 

From  mouth  to  mouth  it  passed,  one  common  humming 

Throughout  the  house  —  the  King!  the  King  is  coming! 

The  Baroness,  with  all  her  .void  and  heart, 
A  loyal  woman,  (now  called  ultra-loyal,) 

Soon  thrust  all  funeral  concerns  apart, 
And  only  thought  about  a  banquet-royal! 

In  short,  by  aid  of  earnest  preparation, 

The  visit  quite  dismissed  the  visitation. 

And   'spite  of  all  h«r  prW  for  the  ex-mate, 

There  was  a  secret  hone  *r:c-  could  not  smother, 

That  some  one,  early,  might  replace  "  the  late," 
It  was  too  soon  to  think  about  another; 

Yet  let  her  minutes  of  despair  be  reckoned 

Against  her  hope,  which  was  but  for  a  second. 

She  almost  thougnt  that  be>n£  thw  b°rpfr 

Just  then,  was  one  of  Time's  pronit'ons  touches; 

A  thread  in  such  a  nick  so  nicked,  it  left 
Free  opportunity  to  be  a  duchess  ; 

Thus  all  her  care  was  only  to  look  pleasant- 

But  as  for  tears  —  she  dropped  them  —  for  >b»  ^r^sent 


The  monarch  came  :  oh  !   who  could  ever  guess 
The  Baroness  had  been  so  late  a  weeper  ! 

A  Legend  of  Navarre .-  i>    ri0.j. 


A    LKOKNI)   OF   NAVAI'.RE. 


505 


Her  household,  as  good  servants  ought  to  try, 
Looked  like  their  lady  —  anything  but  sad, 

And  giggled  even  that  they  might  not  cry, 
To  dam])  fine  company  ;  in  truth  they  had 

No  time  to  mourn,  through  choking  turkeys'  throttles, 

Scouring  old  laces,  and  reviewing  bottles. 


■o 


Oh,  what  a  hubbub  for  the  house  of  woe! 

All,  resolute  to  one  irresolution, 
Kept  tearing,  swearing,  plunging  to  and  fro, 

Just  like  another  French  mob-revolution. 
There  lay  the  corpse  that  could  not  stir  a  muscle, 
But  all  the  rest  seemed  Chaos  in  a  bustle. 

The  Monarch  came  ;  oh,  who  could  ever  guess 
The  Baroness  had  been  so  late  a  weeper! 

The  kingly  grace  and  more  than  graciousness, 
Buried  the  poor  defunct  some  fathoms  deeper,  - 

Could  he  have  had  a  glance  —  alas,  poor  being  ! 

Seeing  would  certainly  have  led  to   J) — ing. 

For  casting  round  about  her  eyes  to  find 
Some  one  to  whom  her  chattels  to  indorse, 

The  comfortable  dame  at  last  inclined 

To  choose  the  cheerful  Master  of  the  Horse; 

He  was  so  gay  —  so  tender  —  the  complete 

Nice  man  —  the  sweetest  of  the  monarch's  suite. 

He  saw  at  once,  and  entered  in  the  lists  — 
Glance  unto  glance  made  amorous  replies; 

They  talked  together  like  two  egotists, 
In  conversation  all  made  up  of  eyes: 

No  couple  ever  got  so  right  consort -ish 

Within  two  hours  —  a  courtship  rather  shortish. 


50G 


A   LKCKND  OK  NAVARRE. 


At  last,  some  sleepy,  some  by  wine  opprest, 
The  courtly  company  began  "  nid  noddin;" 

The  King  first  sought  his  chamber,  and  the  rest 
Instanter  followed  by  the  course  he  trod  in. 

I  shall  not  please  the  .scandalous  by  showing 

The  order,  or  disorder  of  their  "oin". 

The  old  chateau,  before  that  night,  had  never 
Held  half  so  many  underneath  its  roof; 

It  tasked  the  Baroness's  best  endeavor, 
And  put  her  best  contrivance  to  the  proof, 

To  give  them  chambers  up  and  down  the  stairs, 

In  twos  and  threes,  by  singles,  and  by  pairs. 

She  had  just  lodging  for  the  whole  —  yet  barely : 
And  some,  that  were  both  broad  of  back  and  tall, 

Lay  on  spare  beds  that  served  them  very  sparely ; 
However,  there  were  beds  enough  for  all ; 

I?ut  living  bodies  occupied  so  many, 

She  could  not  let  the  dead  one  take  up  any  ! 

The  act  was  certainly  not  over-decent  : 

Some  small  respect,  e'en  after  death,  she  owed  him, 
Considering  his  death  had  been  so  recent; 

However,  by  command,  her  servants  stowed  him, 
(I  am  ashamed  to  think  how  he  was  slubbered,) 
Stuck  bolt  upright  within  a  corner  cupboard ! 

And  there  he  slept  as  soundly  as  a  post, 
With  no  more  pillow  than  an  oaken  shelf: 

Just  like  a  kind,  accommodating  host, 
Taking  all  inconvenience  on  himself; 

None  else  slept  in  that  room,  except  a  stranger, 

A  decent  man,  a  sort  of  Forest  Ranger : 


A   LEGEND  OF  NAVARRE.  507 

Who,  whether  he  had  gone  too  soon  to  bed, 

Or  dreamt  himself  into  an  appetite, 
Howbeit,  he  took  a  longing  to  be  fed, 

About  the  hungry  middle  of  the  night  ; 
So  getting  forth,  he  sought  some  sera])  to  eat, 
Hopeful  of  some  stray  pastry  or  cold  meat. 

The  casual  glances  of  the  midnight  moon, 

Bright'nihg  some  antique  ornaments  of  brass, 

Guided  his  gropings  to  that  corner  soon, 
Just  where  it  stood,  the  coffin-safe,  alas  ! 

He  tried  the  door  —  then  shook  it  —  and  in  course 

Of  time  it  opened  to  a  little  force. 

He  put  one  hand  in,  and  began  to  grope ; 

The  place  was  very  deep,  and  quite  as  dark  as 
The  middle  night;  when  lo  !  beyond  his  hope, 

He  felt  a  something  cold,  in  fact,  the  carcass ; 
Right  overjoyed,  he  laughed,  and  blessed  his  luck 
At  finding,  as  he  thought,  this  haunch  of  buck  ! 

Then  striding  back  for  his  cuuteau-de-chnsse, 
Determined  on  a  little  midnight  lunching, 

He  came  again,  and  probed  about  the  mass, 
As  if  to  find  the  fattest  bit  for  munching; 

Not  meaning  wastefully  to  cut  it  all  up, 

But  only  to  abstract  a  little  collop. 

But  just  as  he  had  struck  one  greedy  stroke, 
His  hand  fell  down  quite  powerless  and  weak; 

For  when  he  cut  the  haunch  it  plainly  spoke 
As  haunch  of  ven'son  never  ought  to  speak  ; 

No  wonder  that  his  hand  could  go  no  further  — 

Whose   could:' —  to   carve   cold   meat    that    bellowed, 
"  Murther  !  " 


508 


A    LEGEND   OF   NAVARRE. 


Down  came  the  Body  with  a  bounce,  and 

The  Ranger  sprang,  a  staircase  at  a  spring, 
And  bawled  enough  to  waken  up  a  town  ; 

Some   thought   that    they  were   murdered,  some,  the 
King, 
.And,  like  Macduff,  did  nothing  for  a  season, 
But  stand  upon  the  spot,  and  bellow,  '-Treason  !  " 

A  hundred  nightcaps  gathered  in  a  mob, 

Torches   drew   torches,   swords   brought   swords  to- 
gether, 
It  seemed  so  dark  and  perilous  a  job  ; 

The  Baroness  came  trembling  like  a  feather 
Just  in  the  rear,  as  pallid  as  a  corse, 
Leaning  against  the  Master  of  the  Horse. 

A  dozen  of  the  bravest  up  the  stair,' 

Well  lighted  and  well  watched,  began  to  clamber; 
They  sought  the  door,  they  found  it — they  were  there  ; 

A  dozen  heads  went  poking  in  the  chamber  ; 
And  lo !   with  one  hand  planted  on  his  hurt, 
There  stood  the  Body  bleeding  through  his  shirt, 

No  passive  corpse  —  but  like  a  duellist 

Just  smarting  from  a  scratch  —  in  fierce  position, 

One  hand  advanced,  and  ready  to  resist  ; 
In  fact,  the  Baron  doffed  the  apparition, 

Swearing  those  oaths  the  French  delight  in  most, 

And  for  the  second  time  "  gave  up  the  ghost!" 

A  living  miracle  !  —  for  why  !  —  the  knife 
That  culs  so  many  off  from  grave  gray  hairs, 

Had  only  kindly  carved  him  into  lite  : 

How  soon  it  changed  the  posture  of  affairs  ! 

The  difference  one  person  more  or  less 

Will  make  in  families,  is  past  all  guess. 


A    TRU1C    ST<  )!:■». 


509 


There  stood  the  Baroness  —  no  widow  yet: 
Here  stood  the  Baron  —  "  in  the  body"  still: 

There  stood  the  Horses'  Master  in  a  pet, 
Choking  with  disappointment's  bitter  pill, 

To  see  t he  hope  of  his  reversion  fail, 

Like  that  of  riding  on  a  donkey's  tail. 


'B 


The  Baron  lived  —  'twas  nothing  but  a  trance  : 
The  lady  died  —  'twas  nothing  hut  a  death: 

The  cupboard-cut  served  only  to  enhance 
This  postscript  to  the  old  Baronial  breath? 

He  soon  forgave,  for  the  revival's  sake, 

A  little  chop  intended  for  a  steak! 


A    TRUE    STORY. 

Of  all  our  pains,  since  man  was  curst. 

I  mean  of  body,  not  the  mental, 

To  name  the  worst,  among  the  worst, 

The  dental  sure  is  transcendental  ; 

Some  bit  of  masticating  bone, 

That  ought  to  help  to  clear  a  shelf, 

But  let  its  proper  work  alone, 

And  only  seems  to  gnaw  itself; 

In  fact,  of  any  grave  attack 

On  victual  there  is  little  danger, 

'Tis  so  like  coming  to  the  rack, 

As  well  as  going  to  the  manger. 

Old  Hunks  —  it  seemed  a  fit  retort 
Of  justice  on  his  grinding  ways  — 
Possessed  a  grinder  of  the  sort, 
That  troubled  all  his  bitter  days. 


510 


A    Tltll*    STORY. 


The  best  of  friends  fall  out,  and  so 

His  teeth  had  done  some  years  ago, 

Save  .some  old  stumps  with  ragged  root, 

And  they  took  turn  about  to  shoot; 

If  he  drank  any  chilly  liquor, 

They  made  it  quite  a  point  to  throb; 

But  if  he  warmed  it  on  the  hob, 

Why  then  they  only  twitched  the  quicker. 

One  tooth  —  I  wonder  such  a  tooth 

Had  never  killed  him  in  his  youth  — 

One  tooth  he  had  with  many  fangs, 

That  shot  at  once  as  many  pangs, 

It  had  a  universal  sting  ; 

One  touch  of  that  ecstatic  stump 

Could  jerk  his  limbs  and  make  him  jump, 

Just  like  a  puppet  on  a  string; 

And  what  was  worse  than  all,  it  had 

A  way  of  making  others  bad. 

There  is,  as  many  know,  a  knack, 

"With  certain  farming  undertakers, 

And  this  same  tooth  pursued  their  track, 

By  adding  ackers  still  to  ackers  ! 

One  way  there  is,  that  has  been  judged 
A  certain  cure,  but  Hunks  was  loth 
To  pay  the  fee,  and  quite  begrudged 
To  lose  his  tooth  and  money  both  ; 
In  fact,  a  dentist  and  the  wheel 
Of  Fortune  are  a  kindred  caste, 
For  after  all  is  drawn,  you  feel 
It's  paying  for  a  blank  at  last ; 
So  Hunks  went  on  from  week  to  week, 
And  kept  his  torment  in  his  cheek ; 
O !  how  it  sometimes  set  him  rocking, 


A    rltUE    STOKY.  511 

With  that  perpetual  gnaw  —  gnaw  —  gnaw, 
His  moans  and  groans  were  truly  shocking, 
And  loud,- — although  he  held  his  jaw. 
Many  a  tug  he  gave  his  gum 
And  tooth,  but  still  it  would  not  come, 
Though  tied  to  string  by  some  firm  thing, 
He  could  not  draw  it,  do  his  best, 
By  drawers,  although  he  tried  a  chest. 

At  last,  but  after  much  debating, 

He  joined  a  score  of  mouths  in  waiting, 

Like  his,  to  have  their  troubles  out. 

Sad  sight  it  was  to  look  about 

At  twenty  faces  making  faces, 

With  many  a  rampant  trick  and  antic, 

For  all  were  very  horrid  cases, 

And  made  their  owners  nearly  frantic. 

A  little  wicket  now  and  then 

Took  one  of  these  unhappy  men, 

And  out  again  the  victim  rushed, 

While  eyes  and  mouth  together  gushed  ; 

At  last  arrived  our  hero's  turn, 

Who  plunged  his  hands  in  both  his  pockets, 

And  down  he  sat,  prepared  to  learn 

How  teeth  are  charmed  to  quit  their  sockets 

Those  who  have  felt  such  operations, 
Alone  can  guess  the  sort  of  ache, 
When  his  old  tooth  began  to  break 
The  thread  of  old  associations  ; 
It  touched  a  string  in  every  part, 
It  had  so  many  tender  tics  ■ 
One  cord  seemed  wrenching  at  his  heart, 
And  two  were  tugging  at  his  eves  ; 
"Bone  of  his  bone,"  lie  felt,  of  course, 


512  A    Tl'.UK    STORY. 

As  husbands  do  in  such  divorce; 
At  last  the  fangs  gave  way  a  little, 
Hunks  gave  his  head  a  backward  jerk, 
And  lo !  the  cause  of*  all  this  work 
Went  —  where  it  used  to  send  his  victual ! 

The  monstrous  pain  of  this  proceeding 

Had  not  so  numbed  his  miser  wit, 

But  in  this  slip  lie  saw  a  hit 

To  save,  at  least,  bis  purse  from  bleeding; 

So  when  the  dentist  sought  his  fees, 

Quoth  Hunks,  "  Let's  finish,  if  you  please." 

"How,  finish!  why,  it's  out!"  —  "O  !   no  — 

'Tis  miu  are  out,  to  argue  so  ; 

I'm  none  of  your  before-hand  tippers. 

My  tooth  is  in  my  head  no  doubt, 

Bat,  as  you  say  you  pulled  it  out, 

Of  course  it's  there  —  between  your  nippers." 

"  Zounds,  sir  !  d'ye  think  I'd  sell  the  truth 

To  get  a  fee  !  no,  wretch,  I  scorn  it!  " 

But  Hunks  still  asked  to  see  the  tooth, 

And  swore  by  gum  !  he  had  not  drawn  it. 

His  end  obtained,  he  took  his  leave, 

A  secret  chuckle  in  his  sleeve  ; 

The  joke  was  worthy  to  produce  one, 

To  think,  by  favor  of  his  wit, 

How  well  a  dentist  had  been  bit 

By  one  old  stump,  and  that  a  loose  one! 

The  thing  was  worth  a  laugh,  but  mirth 

Is  still  the  frailest  thing  on  earth  :    - 

Alas  !   how  often  when  a  joke 

Seems  in  our  sleeve,  and  safe  enough, 

There  comes  some  unexpected  stroke, 

And  hangs  a  weeper  on  the  cuff! 


A    TRUE    STOKY.  513 

Hunks  had  not  whistled  half  a  mile, 
When,  planted  right  against  a  stile, 
There  stood  his  foeman,  Mike  Mahoney, 
A  vagrant  reaper,  Irish  born, 
That  helped  to  reap  our  miser's  corn, 
But  had  not  helped  to  reap  his  money, 
A  fact  that  Hunks  remembered  quickly ; 
His  whistle  all  at  once  was  quelled, 
And  when  he  saw  how  Michael  held 
His  sickle,  he  felt  rather  sickly. 

Nine  souls  in  ten,  with  half  his  fright, 

"Would  soon  have  paid  the  bill  at  sight, 

But  misers  (let  observers  watch  :t) 

Will  never  part  with  their  delight 

Till  well  demanded  by  a  hatchet  — 

They  live  hard  — and  they  die  to  match  it. 

Thus  Hunks,  prepared  for  Mike's  attacking, 

Resolved  not  yet  to  pay  the  debt, 

But  let  him  take  it  out  in  hacking; 

However,  Mike  began  to  stickle 

In  words  before  he  used  the  sickle; 

But  mercy  was  not  long  attendant: 

From  words  at  last  he  took  to  blows, 

And  aimed  a  cut  at  Hunks's  nose, 

That  made  it  what  some  folks  are  not  — 

A  member  very  independent. 

Heaven  knows  how  fur  this  cruel  trick 
Might  still  have  led,  but  for  a  tramper 
That  came  in  danger's  very  nick, 
To  put  Mahoney  to  the  scamper. 
Bui  still  compassion  met  a  damper; 
There  laj   the  severed  nose,  alas  ! 
B     ide  the  daisies  on  the  grass, 


on 


A    TRUE    STOKY. 

"  Wee,  crimson-tipt  "  as  well  as  they, 

According  to  the  poet's  lay: 

And  there  stood  Hunks,  no  sight  for  laughter. 

A.way  went  Hodge  to  get  assistance, 

V.  itli  nose  in  hand,  which  Hunks  ran  after, 

But  somewhat  at  unusual  distance. 

In  many  a  little  country  place 

It  is  a  very  common  case 

To  have  hut  one  residing  doctor, 

Whose  practice  rather  seems  to  be 

No  practice,  but  a  rule  of  three, 

Physician  —  surgeon  —  drug-decoctor ; 

Thus  Hunks  was  forced  to  go  once  more 

Where  he  had  ta'en  his  tooth  before. 

His  mere  name  made  the  learned  man  hot, — 

"What!   Hunks  again  within  my  door! 

"I'll  pull  his  nose;"  quoth  Hunks,  "You  cannot. " 

The  doctor  looked  and  saw  the  case 

Plain  as  the  nose  not  on  his  face. 

"  O  !  hum  —  ha  —  yes  —  I  understand," 

But  then  arose  a  long  demur, 

For  not  a  finger  would  he  stir 

Till  he  was  paid  his  fee  in  hand  ; 

That  matter  settled,  there  they  were, 

"With  Hunks  well  strapped  upon  his  chair 

The  opening  of  a  surgeon's  job  — 
His  tools,  a  chestful  or  a  drawerful  — 
Are  always  something  very  awful, 
And  give  the  heart  the  strangest,  throb ; 
But  never  patient  in  his  funks 
Looked  half  so  like  a  ghost  as  Hunks, 
Or  surgeon  half  so  like  a  devil 
Prepared  for  some  infernal  revel : 


A    TRUE    STORY.  515 

His  huge  black  eye  kept  rolling,  rolling, 

Just  like  a  bolus  in  a  Oox  : 

His  fury  seemed  above  controlling, 

He  bellowed  like  a  hunted  ox  : 

"  Now,  swindling  wretch,  I'll  show  thee  how 

We  treat  such  cheating  knaves  as  thou  ; 

O,  sweet  is  this  revenge  to  sup  ! 

I  have  thee  by  the  nose  —  it's  now 

My  turn  —  and  I  will  turn  it  up." 

Guess  how  the  miser  liked  the  scurvy 

And  cruel  way  of  venting  passion  ; 

The  snubbing  folks  in  this  new  fashion 

Seemed  quite  to  turn  him  topsy-turvy; 

He  uttered  prayers,  and  groans,  and  curses, 

For  things  had  often  gone  amiss 

And  wrong  with  him  before,  but  this 

Would  be  the  worst  of  all  reverses! 

In  fancy  he  beheld  his  snout 

Turned  upwards  like  a  pitcher's  spout 

There  was  another  grievance  yet, 

And  fancy  did  not  fail  to  show  it, 

That  he  must  throw  a  summerset, 

Or  stand  upon  bis  head  to  blow  it. 

And  was  there  then  no  argument 

To  change  the  doctor's  vile  intent, 

And  move  bis  pit)  ?  —  yes,  in  truth, 

And  thai  was  —  paying  for  the  tooth. 

'•  Zounds  !   pay  for  such  a  stump!  I'd  rather "-  : 

But  here  the  menace  went  no  farther, 

For  with  his  other  ways  of  pinching, 

Hunks  had  a  miser's  love  of  snuff. 

A  recollection  strong  enough 

To  cause  a  very  serious  flinching; 


tflQ       HOBAL   REFLECTIONS  ON  THE  CROSS  OF  ST.  PAUL'S, 

In  short,  he  paid  and  had  the  feature 
Replaced  as  it  was  meant  by  nature; 
For  though  by  this  'twas  cold  to  handle, 
(Xo  corpse's  could  have  felt  more  horrid,) 
And  white  just,  like  an  end  of  candle, 
The  doctor  deemed  and  proved  it  too, 
That  noses  from  the  nose  will  do, 
As  well  as  noses  from  the  forehead; 
So,  fixed  by  dint  of  rag  and  lint, 
The  part  was  bandaged  up  and  muffled. 
The  chair  unfastened,  Hunks  arose, 
And  shuffled  out,  for  once  unshuffled  ; 
And  as  he  went,  these  words  he  snuffled — • 
"  Well,  this  is  '  paying  through  the  nose.'  " 


MORAL   REFLECTIONS    OX   THE    CROSS    OF 
ST.   PAUL'S. 

Till-:  man  that  pays  his  pence,  and  goes 
Up  to  thy  lofty  cross,  St.  Paul, 
Looks  over  London's  naked  nose, 
Women  and  men : 
The  world  is  all  beneath  his  ken, 

He  sits  above  the  Ball. 
He  seems  on  Mount  Olympus'  top, 
Among  the  Gods,  by  Jupiter  !  and  lets  drop 

His  eyes  from  the  empyreal  clouds 

On  mortal  crowds. 

Seen  from  these  skies, 
How  small  those  emmets  in  our  eyes  ! 
Some  carry  little  sticks  —  and  one 
His  eggs  —  to  warm  them  in  the  sun ; 

Dear  !  what  a  hustle, 

And  bustle ! 


T 


MORAL    REFLECTIONS  ON  THE  CROSS  OB  ST.  PAUL'S.        fil7 

And  there's  my  aunt.     I  know  her  by  her  waist, 

So  long  and  thin, 

And  so  pinched  in, 
Just  in  the  pismire  taste. 

O !  what  are  men  ?  —  Beings  so  small, 

That  should  .  fall 

Upon  their  little  heads,  I  must 
Crush  them  by  hundreds  into  dust! 

And  what  is  life  ?  and  all  its  ages  — 

There's  seven  stages! 
Turnham  Green  !   Chelsea!  Putney!  Fulhanr- 

Brentford!  and  Rew  ! 

And  Toothing,  too  ! 
And  oh  !  what  very  little  nags  to  pull  'em. 
Yet  each  would  seem  a  horse  indeed, 

If  here  at  Paul's  tip-top  we'd  got  'em  , 
Although,  like  Cinderella's  breed, 

They're  mice  at  bottom. 
Then  let  me  not  despise  a  horse, 
Though  he  looks  small  from  Paul's  high  cross! 
Since  he  would  be  —  as  near  the  sky 

Fourteen  hands  high. 


'o 


What  is  this  world  with  London  in  its  lap? 

Mogg's  Map 
The  Thames  that  ebbs  and  flows  in  its  broad 
channel  ? 

A  tidy  kennel. 
The  bridges  stretching  from  its  banks? 

Stone  planks. 
O  me  !  hence  could  I  read  an  admonition 

To  mad  Ambition  ! 
Bui  that  he  would  not   listen  to  mv  call, 
Though  I  should  stand  upon  the  cross,  and  ball'. 


618 


A  VAl.fiNTINE. 


A  VALENTINE. 


0,  cruel  heart !  ere  these  posthumous  papers 
Have  met  thine  eyes,  I  shall  be  out  of  breath  • 

Those  cruel  eyes,  like  two  funereal  tapers, 
Have  only  lighted  me  the  way  to  death. 

Perchance,  thou  wilt  extinguish  them  in  vapors, 
W  hen  I  am  gone,  and  green  grass  covereth 

Thy  lover,  lost;  hut  it  will  be  in  vain  — 

It  will  not  bring  the  vital  spark  again. 

« 

Ah !  when  those  eyes,  like  tapers,  burned  so  blue, 
It  seemed  an  omen  that  we  must  expect 

The  sprites  of  lovers  :  and  it  boded  true, 
For  I  am  half  a  sprite  —  a  ghost  elect ; 

Wherefore  I  write  to  thee  this  last  adieu, 
With  my  last  pen  —  before  that  I  effect 

My  exit  from  the  stage  ;  just  stopped  before 

The  tombstone  steps  that  lead  us  to  death's  door. 

Full  soon  these  living  eyes,  now  liquid  bright, 
Will  turn  dead  dull,  and  wear  no  radiance,  sav» 

They  shed  a  dreary  and  inhuman  light, 

Illumed  within  by  glow-worms  of  the  grave. 

These  ruddy  cheeks,  so  pleasant  to  the  sight,. 
These  lusty  legs,  and  all  the  limbs  1  havh. 

Will  keep  Death's  carnival,  and,  foul  or  fresh, 

Must  bid  farewell,  a  long  farewell  to  flesh  ! 

Yea,  and  this  very  heart,  that  dies  for  thee, 
As  broken  victuals  to  the  worms  will  go  ■ 

And  all  the  world  will  dine  again  but  me-- 
For  I  shall  have  no  stomach  ;  —  and  I  know, 


A  VALENTINE.  519 

When  I  am  ghostly,  thou  wilt  sprightly  be 

As  now  thou  art;   but  will  not  tears  of  woe 
Water  thy  spirits,  with  remorse  adjunct, 
When  thou  dost  pause,  and  think  of  the  defunct? 

And  when  thy  soul  is  buried  in  a  sleep, 
In  midnight  solitu  le,  and  little  dreaming 

Of  such  a  spectre  —  what,  if  I  should  creep 
Within  thy  presence  in  such  dismal  seeming? 

Thine  eyes  will  stare  themselves  awake,  and  weep, 
And  thou  wilt  cross  thyself  with  treble  screaming, 

And  pray,  with  mingled  penitence  and  dread, 

That  I  were  less  alive  —  or  not  so  dead. 

Then  will  thy  heart  confess  thee,  and  reprove 
This  wilful  homicide  which  thou  hast  done: 

And  the  sad  epitaph  of  so  much  love 
Will  eat  into  thy  heart,  as  if  in  stone : 

And  all  the  lovers  that  around  thee  move, 

Will  read  my  fate,  and  tremble  for  their  own  ; 

And  strike  upon  their  heartless  breasts,  and  sigh, 

"  Man,  born  of  woman,  must  of  woman  die  !  " 

Mine  eyes  grow  dropsical  —  I  can  no  more  — 
And  what  is  written  thou  may'st  scorn  to  read, 

Shutting  thy  tearless  eyes.    'Tis  done  —  'tis  o'er  — 
My  hand  is  destined  for  another  deed. 

But  one  last  word  wrung  from  its  aching  core, 
And  my  lone  heart  in  silentness  will  bleed  ; 

Alas  !  it  ought  to  take  a  life  to  tell 

That  one  last  word  —  that  fare  —  fare  —  fare  thee 
well ! 


523  A   RECITE  —  FOR   CIVILIZATION. 


"PLEASE   TO   RIXG   THE   BELLE." 

I'LL  tell  you  a  story  that's  not  in  Tom  Moore  :  — 
Young  Love  likes  to  knock  at  a  pretty  girl's  door  : 
So  he  called  upon  Lucy  —  'twas  just  ten  o'clock  — 
Like  a  spruce  single  man,  with  a  smart  double  knock. 

Now,  a  handmaid,  whatever  her  ringers  be  at, 
Will  run  like  a  puss  when  she  hears  a  rat-tat : 
So  Lucy  ran  up  —  and  in  two  seconds  more 
Had  questioned  the  stranger  and  answered  the  door. 

The  meeting  was  bliss  ;  but  the  parting  was  woe  ; 
For  the  moment  will  come  when  such  comers  must  go  : 
So    she    kissed    him,   and  whispered  —  poor   innocent 

thing  — 
"  The  next  time  you  come,  love,  pray  come  with  a  ring." 


A   RECIPE  — FOR   CIVILIZATION. 

The  following  Poem  is  from  the  pen  of  Dr.  Kitchener,  the  most  hete- 
rogeneous of  Authors,  bul  sit  the  same  time  —  in  the  Sporting  Latin  or  Mr. 
Egan, —  a  real  Homo-genius,  or  a  Genius  of  a  Man!  In  the  Poem,  his 
culinary  k.nthusiasm,  as  usual,  boila  over.'  ami  makes  n  seem  written, 
as  lie  describes  himself  (see  The  Cook's  Oracle),  with  the  Spitinone 
hand,  and  the  Frying-Pan  in  the  other,  while  in  the  style  of  the  rhymes 
jt  is  Hudibrastie,  as  if  in  the  ingredients  of  Versification  ho  had  been 
Assisted  by  his  Bui  lkr! 

As  a  I  lea  1 1  Cook,  Optician,  Physician,  Music  Master,  Domestic  Econo- 
mist, ami  Death-bed  Attorney,  I  have  celebrated  I  he  Author  elsewhere 
With  approbation;  and  cannot  now  place  him  upon  the  Table  as  a  Poet, 
without  still  being  his  Laudkr, —  a  phrase  which  those  persons  whose 
course  of  classical  reading  recalls  the  infamous  FORGERY  on  The  Im- 
mortal Bard  of  Avon,  will  And  easy  to  understand. 

SURELY  those  sages  err  who  teach 
That  man  is  known  from  brutes  by  speech, 
AVhich  hardly  severs  man  from  woman, 
But  not  the  inhuman  from  the  human,  — 


A   RECIPE  —  FOU  CIVILIZATION.  521 

Or  else  might  parrots  claim  affinity, 

And  dogs  be  doctors  by  latinity,  — 

Not  to  insist  (as  might  be  shown), 

That  beasts  have  gibberish  of  their  own, 

Which  once  was  no  dead  tongue,  though  we 

Since  yEsop's  days  have  lost  the  key  ; 

Nor  yet  to  hint  dumb  men,  —  and,  still,  not 

Beasts  that  could  gossip  though  they  will  not, 

But  play  at  dummy  like  the  monkeys, 

For  fear  mankind  should  make  them  flunkies. 

Neither  can  man  be  known  by  feature 

Or  form,  because  so  like  a  creature, 

That  some  grave  men  could  never  shape 

Which  is  the  aped  and  which  the  ape, 

Nor  by  his  gait,  nor  by  his  height, 

Nor  yet  because  he's  black  or  white, 

But  rational,  —  for  so  we  call 

The  only  Cooking  Animal  ! 

The  only  one  who  brings  his  bit 

Of  dinner  to  the  pot  or  spit, 

For  where's  the  lion  e'er  was  hasty 

To  put  his  ven'son  in  a  pasty  ? 

Ergo,  by  logic,  we  repute, 

That  he  that  cooks  is  not  a  brute,  — 

But  Equus  brutum  est,  which  means, 

If  a  horse  had  sense  he'd  boil  his  beans, 

Nay,  no  one  but  a  horse  would  forage 

On  naked  oats  instead  of  porridge, 

Which  proves  if  brutes  and  Scotchmen  vary, 

The  difference  is  culinary. 

Further,  as  man  is  known  by  feeding 

From  brutes,  —  so  men  from  men,  in  breeding, 

Are  still  distinguished  as  they  eat, 

And  raw  in  manners  raw  in  meat, — 

Look  at  the  polished  nations  hight 


522  *  RECIPE  —  FOB  CIVILIZATION. 

The  civilized  —  the  most  polite 

Is  that  which  bears  the  praise  of  nations 

For  dressing  eggs  two  hundred  fashions, 

Whereas,  at  savage  feeders  look,  — 

The  less  refined  the  less  they  cook  ; 

From  Tartar  grooms  that  merely  straddle 

Across  a  steak  and  warm  their  saddle, 

Down  to  the  Abyssinian  squaw, 

That  bolts  her  chops  and  collops  raw, 

And,  like  a  wild  beast,  cares  as  little 

To  dress  her  person  as  her  victual, — 

For  gowns,  and  gloves,  and  caps,  and  tippets, 

Are  beauty's  sauces,  spice,  and  sippets, 

And  not  by  shamble  bodies  put  on, 

But  those  who  roast  and  boil  their  mutton ; 

So  Eve  and  Adam  wore  no  dresses 

Because  they  lived  on  watevcressea, 

And  till  they  learned  to  cook  their  crudities, 

Went  blind  as  beetles  to  their  nudities. 

For  nieeness  comes  from  the  inner  side, 

(As  an  ox  is  drest  before  his  hide,) 

And  when  the  entrail  loathes  vulgarity, 

The  outward  man  will  soon  cull  rarity, 

For  'tis  the  effect  of  what  we  eat 

To  make  a  man  look  like  his  meat, 

As  insects  show  their  food's  complexions  ; 

Thus  foplings'  clothes  are  like  confections: 

But  who,  to  feed  a  jaunty  coxcomb, 

Would  have  an  Abyssinian  ox  come?  — 

Or  serve  a  dish  of  fricassees, 

To  clodpoles  in  a  coat  of  frieze? 

Whereas  a  black  would  call  for  buffalo 

Alive  —  and,  no  doubt,  eat  the  offal  too. 

Now  (this  premised)  it  follows  then 

That  certain  culinary  men 


A   RECIPE  —  FOR  CIVILISATION.  523 

Should  first  go  forth  with  pans  and  spits 

To  bring  the  heathens  to  their  wits, 

(For  all  wise  Scotchmen  of  our  century 

Know  that  first  steps  are  alimentary  ; 

And,  as  we  have  proved,  flesh-pots  and  saucepans 

Must  pave  the  May  for  Wilherforce  plans j) 

But  Bunyan  erred  to  think  the  near  gate 

To  take  man's  soul  was  battering  Ear  gate, 

When  reason  should  have  worked  her  course 

As  men  of  war  do  —  when  their  force 

Can't  take  a  town  by  open  courage. 

They  steal  an  entry  with  its  forage. 

What  reverend  bishop,  for  example, 

Could  preach  horned  Apis  from  his  temple? 

Whereas  a  cook  would  soon  unseat  him, 

And  make  his  own  churchwardens  eat  him. 

Not  Irving  could  convert  those  vermin, 

The  Anthropophages,  by  a  sermon  ; 

Whereas  your  Osborne,  in  a  trice, 

Would  "take  a  shin  of  beef  and  spice,"  — 

And  raise  them  such  a  savory  smother, 

No  Negro  would  devour  Jiis  brother, 

But  turn  Ins  stomach  round  as  loth 

As  Persians,  to  the  old  black  broth,  — 

For  knowledge  oftenest  makes  an  entry, 

As  well  as  true  love,  through  the  pantry, 

Where  beaux  that  came  at  first  for  feeding 

Grow  gallant  men  and  get  good  breeding;  — 

Exempli  gratia  —  in  the  West, 

Ship-traders  say  there  swims  a  nest 

Lined  with  black  natives,  like  a  rookery, 

But  coarse  as  carrion  crows  at  cookery.  — 

This  race,  though  now  called  ().  V.  K.  men, 

(To  show  they  are  more  than  A.  B.  C.  men,) 

Was  once  so  ignorant  of  our  knacks 


524  A   RECIPE  —  FOR  CIVILIZATION. 

They  laid.their  mats  upon  their  hacks, 

And  grew  their  quartern  loaves  for  luncheon 

On  trees  that  baked  them  in  the  sunshine. 

As  for  their  bodies,  they  were  coated, 

(For  painted  things  are  so  denoted  ;) 

But,  the  naked  truth  is  stark  primeval*, 

That  said  their  prayers  to  timber  devils, 

Allowed  polygamy  —  dwelt  in  wigwams,  — 

And,  when  they  meant  a  feast,  ate  big  yams,— 

And  why  ?  —  because  their  savage  nook 

Had  ne'er  been  visited  by  Cook, — 

And  so  they  fared  till  our  great  chief 

Brought  them,  not  Methodists,  hut  beef 

In  tubs,  — and  taught  them  how  to  live, 

Knowing  it  was  too  soon  to  give, 

Just  then,  a  homily  on  their  sins, 

(For  cooking,  ends  ere  grace  begins,) 

Or  hand  his  tracts  to  the  untraceable 

Till  they  could  keep  a  more  exact  table  — 

For  nature  has  her  proper  courses 

And  wild  men  must  be  backed  like  horses, 

AY  Inch,  jockeys  know,  are  never  fit 

For  riding  till  they've  had  a  bit 

In  the  mouth  ;  but  then,  with  proper  tackle, 

You  may  trot  them  to  a  tabernacle. 

Ergo  (I  say)  he  first  made  changes 

In  the  heathen  modes,  by  kitchen  ranges, 

And  taught  the  king's  cook,  by  convincing 

Process,  that  chewing  was  not  mincing, 

And  in  her  black  fist  thrust  a  bundle 

Of  tracts  abridged  from  Glasse  and  ltundell, 

Where,  ere  she  had  read  beyond  Welsh  rabbits, 

She  saw  the  spareness  of  her  habits, 

And  round  her  loins  put  on  a  striped 

Towel,  where  fingers  might  be  wiped. 


T1IK    LAST  MAN. 


525 


And  then  her  breast  clothed  like  her  ribs, 
(For  aprons  lead  of  course  to  bibs,) 
And,  by  the  time  she  had  got  a  meat- 
Screen,  veiled  her  back,  too,  from  the  heat ;  - 
As  for  her  gravies  and  her  sauces, 
(Though  they  reformed  the  royal  fauces,) 
Her  forcemeats  and  ragouts,  —  I  praise  not, 
Because  the  legend  further  says  not, 
Exeept,  she  kept  each  Christian  high-day, 
And  once  upon  a- fat  good  Fry-day 
Kan  short  of  logs,  and  told  the  Pagan, 
That  turned  the  spit,  to  chop  up  Dagon ! 


THE   LAST   MAX. 

Tw  \s  in  the  year  two  thousand  and  one, 

A  pleasant  morning  of  May, 
I  sat  on  the  gallows'-tree  all  alone, 

A  chanting  a  merry  lay,  — 
To  think  how  the  pest  had  spared  my  life, 

To  sing  with  the  larks  that  day! 

When  up  the  heath  came  a  jolly  knave, 

Like  a  scarecrow,  all  in  rags: 
It  made  me  crow  to  see  his  old  duds 

All  abroad  in  the  wind,  like  flags  :  — 
So  up  he  came  to  the  timber's  foot 

And  pitched  down  his  greasy  bags. 

Good  Lord!  how  blithe  the  old  beggar  was! 

At  pulling  out  his  scraps, — 
The  very  sight  of  his  broken  oris 

Made  a  work  in  his  wrinkled  chaps: 
"Come  down,"  says  be.  "you  Newgate  bird, 

And  have  a  taste  of  my  snaps !  "  — 


526  THE   LAST  MAN. 

Then  down  the  rope,  like  a  tar  from  the  mast, 

I  slided,  and  by  him  stood; 
But  I  wished  myself  on  the  gallows  again 

When  I  smelt  that  beggar's  food, 
A  foul  beef-bone  and  a  mouldy  crust; 

"  O  !  "  quoth  he,  "  the  heavens  are  good  !  " 

Then  after  this  grace  he  cast  him  down : 

Says  I,  "  You'll  get  sweeter  air 
A  pace  or  two  off,  on  the  windward  side," 

For  the  felons'  bones  lay  there. 
But  he  only  laughed  at  the  empty  skulls, 

And  offered  them  part  of  his  fare. 

"  I  never  harmed  them,  and  they  won't  harm  mfc: 
Let  the  proud  and  the  rich  be  cravens !  " 

I  did  not  like  that  strange  beggar  man, 
He  looked  so  up  at  the  heavens. 

Anon  he  shook  out  his  empty  old  poke  ; 

"  There's  the  crumbs,"  saith  he,  "  for  the  ravens ! " 

It  made  me  angry  to  see  his  face, 

It  had  such  a  jesting  look  ; 
But  while  I  made  up  my  mind  to  speak, 

A  small  case-bottle  he  took  : 
Quoth  he,  "  Though  I  gather  the  green  watercress, 

My  chink  is  not  of  the  brook !  " 

Full  manners-like  he  tendered  the  dram ; 

O,  it  came  of  a  dainty  cask  ! 
But  whenever  it  came  to  his  turn  to  pull, 

"  Your  leave,  good  sir,  1  must  ask  ; 
But  I  always  wipe  the  brim  with  my  sleeve, 

When  a  hangman  sups  at  my  flask  ! " 


THE  LAST  MAN.  OL w 

And  then  he  laugher!  so  loudly  and  long, 
The  churl  was  quite  out  of  breath  ; 

I  thought  the  very  Old  One  was  come 
To  mock  me  before  my  death, 

And  wished  I  had  buried  the  dead  men's  bones 
That  were  lying  about  the  heath  ! 

But  the  beggar  gave  me  a  jolly  clap  — 

"  Come,  let  us  pledge  each  other, 
For  all  the  wide  world  is  dead  beside, 

And  we  are  brother  and  brother  — 
I've  a  yearning  for  thee  in  my  heart, 

As  if  we  had  come  of  one  mother. 

"  I've  a  yearning  for  thee  in  my  heart 

That  almost  makes  me  weep, 
For  as  I  passed  from  town  to  town 

The  folks  were  all  stone  asleep,  — 
But  when  I  saw  thee  sitting  aloft, 

It  made  me  both  laugh  and  leap  !" 

Now  a  curse  (I  thought)  be  on  his  love, 

And  a  curse  upon  his  mirth, — 
And  if  it  were  not  for  that  beggar  man 

I'd  be  the  King  of  the  earth,  — 
But  I  promised  myself  an  hour  should  come 

To  make  him  rue  his  birth.  — 

So  down  we  sat  and  housed  again 

Till  the  sun  was  in  mid-sky, 
When,  just  when  the  gentle  wdst-wind  came, 

We  hearkened  a  dismal  cry  ; 

II  Up,  up,  on  the  tree,"  quoth  the  beggar  man, 

"  Till  these  horrible  dogs  go  by  !  " 


50**1.  THE  LAST  MAN. 

And  lo  !   from  the  forest's  far-off  skirts, 
They  came  all  yelling  Cor  gore, 

A  hundred  hounds  pursuing  at  once, 
And  a  panting  hart  before, 

Till  he  sunk  down  at  the  gallows'  foot, 
And  there  his  haunches  they  tore! 

His  haunches  they  tore,  without  a  horn 
To  tell  when  the  chase  was  done  ; 

And  there  was  not  a  single  scarlet  coat 
To  flaunt  it  in  the  sun  !  — 

I  turned,  and  looked  at  the  beggar  man, 
And  his  tears  dropt  one  by  one  ! 

And  with  curses  sore  he  chid  at  the  hounds, 
Till  the  last  dropt  out  of  sight ; 

Anon,  saith  he,  "  Let's  down  again, 
And  ramble  for  our  delight, 

For  the  world  's  all  free,  and  we  may  chooce 
A  right  cosy  barn  for  to-night !  " 

With  that  he  set  up  his  staff  on  end, 
And  it  fell  with  the  point  due  West ; 

So  we  fared  that  way  to  a  city  great, 
Where  the  folks  had  died  of  the  pest. 

It  was  fine  to  enter  in  house  and  hall, 
Wherever  it  liked  me  best ;  — 

For  the  porters  all  were  stiff  and  cold, 
And  could  not  lift  their  heads ; 

And  when  we  came  where  their  masters  lay, 
The  rats  leapt  out  of  the  beds  : 

The  grandest  palaces  in  the  land 
Were  as  free  as  workhouse  sheds. 


XHIi   LAST  MAN.  529 

But  the  beggar  man  made  a  mumping  face, 

And  knocked  at  every  gate  : 
It  made  me  curse  to  hear  how  he  whined, 

So  our  fellowship  turned  to  hate, 
And  I  bice  him  walk  the  world  by  himself, 

For  I  scorned  so  humble  a  mate! 

So  lie  turned  right,  and  I  turned  left, 

As  if  we  had  never  met ; 
And  I  chose  a  fair  stone  house  for  myseif, 

For  the  city  was  all  to  let ; 
And  for  three  brave  holidays  drank  my  fil/ 

Of  the  choicest  that  I  could  get. 

And  because  my  jerkin  was  coarse  and  worn, 

I  got  me  a  proper  vest ; 
It  was  purple  velvet,  stitched  o'er  with  ^old, 

And  a  shining  star  at  the  breast  !  — 
'Twas  enough  to  fetch  old  Joan  from  her  grave 

To  see  me  so  purely  drest ! 

But  Joan  was  dead  and  under  the  mould 

And  every  buxom  lass  ; 
In  vain  I  watched,  at  the  window  pane, 

For  a  Christian  soul  to  pass. 
But  sheep  and  kine  wandered  up  the  street, 

And  browsed  on  the  new-come  £rrass. 


o* 


When  lo  !  I  spied  the  old  beggar  man, 
And  lustily  lie  did  sing  !  — 

His  rags  were  lapped  in  a  scarlet  cloak, 
And  a  crown  he  had  like  a  kin<r  ; 

bo  he  stepped  right  up  before  my  gate 
And  danced  me  a  saucy  iling. 


530 


THE   LAST  .MAX. 


Heaven  mend  is  all  !  —  but.  within  my  mind. 

I  had  killed  him  then  and  there  ; 
To  see  nim  lording  so  braggart-like 

That  was  born  to  his  beggar's  fare, 
And  how  he  had  stolen  the  royal  crown 

His  betters  were  meant  to  wear. 

But  God  forbid  that  a  thief  should  die 

Without  his  share  of  the  laws  ! 
So  I  nimbly  whipt  my  tackle  out, 

And  soon  tied  up  his  claws, — 
I  was  judge  myself,  and  jury,  and  all, 

And  solemnly  tried  the  cause. 

But  the  beggar  man  would  not  plead,  but  cried 

Like  a  babe  without  its  corals, 
For  he  knew  how  hard  it  is  apt  to  go 

When  the  law  and  a  thief  have  quarrels,  — 
There  was  not  a  Christian  soul  alive 

To  speak  a  word  for  his  morals. 

O,  how  gaily  I  doffed  my  costly  gear, 
And  put  on  my  work-day  clothes  ; 

I  was  tired  of  such  a  long  Sunday  life,  — 
And  never  was  one  of  the  sloths  ; 

But  the  beggar  man  grumbled  a  weary  deal, 
And  made  many  crooked  mouths. 

So  I  hauled  him  off  to  the  gallows'  foot, 

And  blinded  him  in  his  bags  ; 
'Twas  a  weary  job  to  heave  him  up, 

For  a  doomed  man  always  lags  ; 
But  by  ten  of  the  clock  he  was  off  his  legs 

In  the  wind,  and  airing  his  rags  ! 


THE  LAST  MAN.  531 

So  there  he  hung,  and  there  I  stood, 

The  Last  Man  left  alive, 
To  have  my  own  will  of  all  the  earth ; 

Quoth  I,  now  I  shall  thrive  ! 
But  when  was  ever  honey  made 

With  one  bee  in  a  hive  ? 

My  conscience  began  to  gnaw  my  heart, 

Before  the  day  was  done, 
For  other  men's  lives  had  all  gone  out, 

Like  candles  in  the  sun  !  — 
But  it  seemed  as  if  I  had  broke,  at  last, 

A  thousand  necks  in  one  ! 

So  I  went  and  cut  his  body  clown 

To  bury  it  decentlie  ;  — 
God  send  there  were  any  good  soul  alive 

To  do  the  like  by  me  ! 
But  the  wild  dogs  came  with  terrible  speed, 

And  bade  me  up  the  tree  ! 

My  sight  was  like  a  drunkard's  sight, 

And  my  head  began  to  swim, 
To  see  their  jaws  all  white  with  foam, 

Like  the  ravenous  ocean  brim  :  — 
But  when  the  Mild  dogs  trotted  away 

Their  jaws  were  bloody  and  grim  ! 

Their  jaws  were  bloody  and  grim,  good  Lord ! 

But  the  beggar  man,  where  was  lie  ?  — 
There  was  naught  of  him  but  some  ribbons  or  rags 

Below  the  gallows'-tree. 
I  know  the  Devil,  when  I  am  dead, 

Will  send  his  hounds  for  me  !  — 


532  THE   LAST  MAN. 

I've  buried  my  babies  one  by  one, 
And  dug  the  deep  hole  for  Joan, 

And  covered  the  faces  of  kith  and  kin, 
And  felt  the  old  churchyard  stone 

Go  cold  to  my  heart,  full  many  a  time, 
But  I  never  felt  so  lone  ! 

For  the  lion  and  Adam  were  company, 

And  the  tiger  him  beguiled  : 
But  the  simple  kine  are  foes  to  my  life, 

And  the  household  brutes  are  wild. 
If  the  veriest  cur  would  lick  my  hand, 

I  could  love  it  like  a  child  ! 

And  the  beggar  man's  ghost  besets  my  dream 
At  night,  to  make  me  madder,  — 

And  my  wretched  conscience  within  my  breast 
Is  like  a  stinging  adder  ; 

I  sigh  when  I  pass  the  gallows'  foot, 
And  look  at  the  rope  and  ladder  !  — 

For  hanging  looks  sweet,  —  but,  alas  !  in  vain 

My  desperate  fancy  begs,  — 
I  must  turn  my  cup  of  sorrows  quite  up, 

And  drink  it  to  the  dregs,  — 
For  there  is  not  another  man  alive, 

In  the  world,  to  pull  my  legs ! 


BACKING  THE  FAVORITE.  533 


BACKING   THE   FAVORITE. 

Oh  a  pistol,  or  a  knife  ! 
For  I'm  weary  of  my  life,  — 

My  cup  has  nothing  sweet  left  to  flavor  it  ; 
My  estate  is  out  at  nurse, 
And  my  heart  is  like  my  purse,  — 

And  all  through  backing  of  the  Favorite  ! 

At  dear  O'Neil's  first  start, 
I  sported  all  my  heart, — 

0,  Becher,  he  never  marred  a  braver  hit ! 
For  he  crossed  her  in  her  race, 
And  made  her  lose  her  place, 

And  there  was  an  end  of  that  Favorite! 

Anon  to  mend  my  chance, 

For  the  Goddess  of  the  Dance  * 

I  pined,  and  told  my  enslaver  it  !  — 
But  she  wedded  in  a  canter, 
And  made  me  a  Levanter, 

In  foreign  lands  to  sigh  for  the  Favorite  ! 

The  next  Miss  M.  A.  Tree 
I  adored,  so  sweetly  she 

Could  warble  like  a  nightingale  and  quaver  it, 
But  she  left  that  course  of  life 
To  be  Mr.  Bradshaw's  wife, 

And  all  the  world  lost  on  the  Favorite  ! 


*  The  late  favorite  "I'  the  King's  Theatre,  who  left  tlio  pas  sen/  of  lifo 
for  a  perpetual  Ball,  is  not  that  her  effigy  now  commonlj  borne  about 
by  the  Italian  image-venders  —  an  ethereal  form  holding  a  wreath  with 
both  hands  above  her  head  —  ami  her  husband,  in  emblem,  beneath  her 
foot? 


■   ■" 


534 


THE   MERMAID  OF   MA  UP,  ATE. 


But  out  of  sorrow's  surf 
Soon  I  leaped  upon  the  turf, 

Where  fortune  loves  to  wanton  it  and  waver  it;  — 
But  standing  on  the  pet, 
"  O  my  bonny,  bonny  Bet.  !  " 

Black  and  yellow  pulled  short  up  with  the  Favorite* 

Thus  flung  by  all  the  crack, 
I  resolved  to  cut  the  pack,  — 

The  second-raters  seemed  then  a  safer  hit ! 
So  I  laid  my  little  odds 
Against  Memnon  !     0  ye  Gods  ! 

Am  I  always  to  be  floored  by  the  Favorite ! 


THE   MERMAID    OF    MARGATE. 

"Alas',  what  perils  do  environ 
That  man  who  meddles  with  a  siren!  "  —  JIudibras. 

On  Margate  beach,  where  the  sick  one  roams, 

And  the  sentimental  reads  ; 
Where  the  maiden  flirts,  and  the  widow  comes 

Like  the  ocean  —  to  cast  her  weeds  ;  — 

Where  urchins  wander  to  pick  up  shells, 
And  the  Cit  to  spy  at  the  ships,  — 

Like  the  water  gala  at  Sadler's  Wells,  — 
And  the  Chandler  for  watery  dips  ;  — 

There's  a  maiden  sits  by  the  ocean  brim, 

As  lovely  and  fair  as  sin  ; 
But  woe,  deep  water  and  woe  to  him, 

That  she  snareth  like  Peter  Fin  : 


THE  MERMAID  OF  MARGATE.  535 

Her  head  is  -crowned  with  pretty  sea-wares, 
And  her  looks  are  golden  and  loose, 

And  seek  to  her  feet,  like  other  folks'  heirs, 
To  stand,  of  course,  in  her  shoes. 

And  all  day  long  she  comheth  them  well, 

With  a  sea-shark's  prickly  jaw  ; 
And  her  mouth  is  just  like  a  rose-lipped  shell, 

The  fairest  that  man  e'er  saw. 

And  the  Fishmonger,  humble  as  love  may  be, 

Hath  planted  his  seat  by  her  side  ; 
"  Good  even,  fair  maid  !     Is  thy  lover  at  sea, 

To  make  thee  so  watch  the  tide  ?  " 

She  turned  about  with  her  pearly  brows, 

And  clasped  him  by  the  hand  ; 
"  Come,  love,  with  me  ;  I've  a  bonny  house 

On  the  golden  Goodwin  sand." 

And  then  she  gave  him  a  siren  kiss, 

No  honeycomb  e'er  was  sweeter  ; 
Poor  wretcli !  how  little  he  dreamt  for  this 

That  Peter  should  be  salt-Peter  : 

And  away  with  her  prize  to  the  wave  she  leapt, 

Not  walking,  as  damsels  do, 
With  toe  and  heel,  as  she  ought  to  have  stept, 

But  she  hopt  like  a  Kangaroo  ; 

One  plunge,  and  then  the  victim  was  blind, 
Whilst  they  galloped  across  the  tide  ; 

At  last,  on  the  bank  he  waked  in  his  mind, 
And  the  Beauty  was  by  his  side. 


536  Till';  MERMAID  OF  MARGATE. 

One  half  on  the  sand,  and  half  in  the  sea, 

But  his  hair  began  to  stiffen  ; 
For  when  he  looked  where  her  feet  should  he, 

She  had  no  more  feet  than  Miss  Biffen ! 

But  a  scaly  tail,  of  a  dolphin's  growth, 

in  the  dabbling  brine  did  soak  : 
At  last  she  opened  her  pearly  mouth, 

Like  an  oyster,  and  thus  she  spoke  : 

"You  crimpt  my  father,  Mho  was  a  skate, — 
And  my  sister  you  sold  —  a  maid  ; 

So  here  remain  for  a  fish'ry  fate, 
For  lost  you  are,  and  betrayed!" 

And  away  she  went,  with  a  seagull's  scream, 

And  a  splash  of  her  saucy  tail  ; 
In  a  moment  lie  lost  the  silvery  gleam 

That  shone  on  her  splendid  mail. 

The  sun  went  down  with  a  blood-red  flame, 
And  the  sky  grew  cloudy  and  black, 

And  the  tumbling  billows  like  leap-frog  came, 
Each  over  the  other's  back. 

Ah  me  !  it  had  been  a  beautiful  scene, 
With  the  safe  terra-Jirma  round  ; 

But  the  green  water-hillocks  all  seemed  to  him 
Like  those  in  a  churchyard  ground  ; 

And  Christians  love  in  the  turf  to  lie, 

Not  in  watery  graves  to  be  ; 
Nay,  the  very  fishes  will  sooner  die 

On  the  land  than  in  the  sea. 


THE  MERMAID  OF  MARGATE.  537 

And  whilst  lie  stood,  the  watery  strife 

Encroached  on  every  hand, 
And  the  ground  decreased,  —  his  moments  of  life 

Seemed  measured,  like  Time's,  by  sand. 

And  still  the  waters  foamed  in,  like  ale, 

In  front,  and  on  either  flank, 
He  knew  that  Goodwin  and  Co.  must  fail, 

There  was  such  a  run  on  the  bank. 

A  little  more,  and  a  little  more, 

The  surges  came  tumbling  in, 
He  sang  the  evening  hymn  twice  o'er, 

And  thought  of  every  sin. 

Each  flounder  and  plaice  lay  cold  at  his  heart, 

As  cold  as  his  marble  slab  ; 
And  he  thought  he  felt,  in  every  part, 

The  pincers  of  scalded  crab. 

The  squealing  lobsters  that  he  had  boiled, 

And  the  little  potted  shrimps, 
All  the  horny  prawns  he  had  ever  spoiled, 

Gnawed  into  his  soul,  like  imps  ! 

And  the  billows  were  wandering  to  and  fro, 

And  the  glorious  sun  was  sunk, 
And  Day,  getting  black  in  the  face,  as  though 

Of  the  night-shade  she  had  drunk. 


— 


Had  there  been  but  a  smuggler's  cargo  adrift, 

One  tub,  or  keg.  to  be  s(  en, 
It  might  have  given  his  spirits  a  lift 

Or  an  anlcer  where  Hope  might  lean. 


538 


XI I K   MERMAID  OF  MARGATE. 

But  there  was  not  a  box  or  a  beam  afloat, 
To  raft  him  from  that  sad  place  ; 

Not  a  skiff,  not  a  yawl,  or  a  mackerel  boat, 
Nor  a  smack  upon  Neptune's  face. 

At  last,  his  lingering  hopes  to  buoy, 

He  saw  a  sail  and  a  mast, 
And  called  "  Ahoy  !  "  —  but  it  was  not  a  hoy, 

And  so  the  vessel  went  past. 

And  with  saucy  wing  that  napped  in  his  face, 

The  wild  bird  about  him  flew, 
With  a  shrilly  scream,  that  twitted  his  case, 

"  Why,  thou  art  a  sea-gull  too  !  " 

And  lo  !  the  tide  was  over  his  feet; 

O  !  his  heart  began  to  freeze, 
And  slowly  to  pulse  :  —  in  another  beat 

The  wave  was  up  to  his  knees. 

He  was  deafened  amidst  the  mountain  tops, 
And  the  ealt  spray  blinded  his  eyes, 

And  washed  away  the  other  salt  drops 
That  grief  had  caused  to  arise  :  — 


But  just  as  his  body  was  all  afloat, 
And  the  surges  above  him  broke, 

He  was  saved  from  the  hungry  deep  by  a  boat 
Of  Deal  —  (but  buildcd  of  oak). 

The  skipper  gave  him  a  dram,  as  he  lay, 

And  chafed  his  shivering  skin  ; 
And  the  Angel  returned  that  was  flying  away 

With  the  spirit  of  Peter  Fin  ! 


AS  IT   I1£LL  UPON   A   DAY.  53D 


AS   IT   FELL   UPON   A   DAY. 

O  !  what's  befallen  Bessy  Brown, 
She  stands  so  squalling  in  the  street ; 

She's  let  her  pitcher  tumble  down, 
And  all  the  water  's  at  her  feet ! 

The  little  schoolboys  stood  about, 

And  laughed  to  see  her  pumping,  pumping  ; 
Now  with  a  curtsey  to  the  spout, 

And  then  upon  her  tiptoes  jumping. 

Long  time  she  waited  for  her  neighbors 
To  have  their  turns :  —  but  she  must  lose 

The  watery  wages  of  her  labors,  — 
Except  a  little  in  her  shoes. 

Without  a  voice  to  tell  her  tale, 

And  ugly  transport  in  her  face; 
All  like  ajugless  nightingale, 

She  thinks  of  her  bereaved  case. 

At  last  she  sobs  —  she  cries  —  she  screams 

And  pours  her  flood  of  sorrows  out. 

From  eyes  and  mouth,  in  mingled  streams, 
Just  like  the  lion  on  the  spout. 

For  well  poor  Bessy  knows  her  mother 
Must  lose  her  tea,  for  water's  lack, 

That  Sukey  burns  —  and  baby-brother 
Must  be  dry-rubbed  with  huck-a-back. 


540  THE   FALL  OF  THE    RISER. 

THE    FALL    OF    THE    DEER. 

FROM    AN    OLD    MANUSCRIPT. 

Now  the  loud  Crye  is  up,  and  harke ! 
The  barkye  Trees  give  hack  the  Bark  ; 
The  House  Wife  heares  the  merrie  rout, 
And  runnes,  —  and  lets  the  beere  mil  out, 
Leaving  her  Babes  to  weepe,  —  for  why? 
She  likes  to  heere  the  Deer  Dogges  crye, 
And  see  the  wild  Stag  how  lie  stretches 
The  naturall  Buck-skin  of  his  Breeches, 
Running  like  one  of  Human  kind 
Dogged  by  fleet.  Bailifl'es  close  behind  — 
As  if  he  had  not  payde  his  Bill 
For  Ven'son,  or  was  owing  still 
For  his  two  Homes,  and  soe  did  get 
Over  his  Head  and  Ears  in  Debt;  — 
Wherefore  he  strives  to  paye  his  Waye 
With  his  long  Legges  the  while  he  maye  :  • 
But  he  is  chased,  like  Silver  Dish, 
As  well  as  anye  Hart  may  wish 
Except  that  one  whose  Heart  doth  beat 
So  faste  it  hasteneth  his  Feet;  — 
And  runninge  soe  he  holdeth  Death 
Four  Feet  from  him,  —  till  his  Breath 
Faileth,  and  slacking  Pace  at  last, 
From  runninge  slow  he  standeth  faste, 
With  hornie  Bayonettes  at  baye 
To  having  Dogges  around,  and  they 
Pushing  him  sore,  he  pusheth  sore, 
And  goreth  them  that  seek  his  Gore, — 
Whatever  Dogge  his  Home  doth  rive 
Is  dead  —  as  sure  as  he  's  alive  ! 


DECEMBEK  AND  MAT. 

So  that  courageous  Hart  doth  fight 
With  Fate,  and  calleth  up  his  might, 
And  standeth  stout  that  he  may  tall 
Bravelye,  and  be  avenged  of  all, 
Nor  like  a  Craven  yeeid  his  Breath 
Under  the  Jawes  of  Dogges  and  Death! 


541 


DECEMBER  AND    MAY. 

"Crabbed  Age  and  Youth  cannot  live  together."'  — Shakspeakb. 

Said  Nestor  to  his  pretty  wife,  quite  sorrowful  one  day, 

"  Why,  dearest,  will  you  shed  in  pearls  those  lovely- 
eyes  away  ? 

You  ought  to  he  more  fortified."  "Ah,  brute,  be 
quiet,  do, 

I  know  I'm  not  so  fortyfied,  nor  fiftyfied,  as  you  ! 

"Oh,  men  are  vile  deceivers  all,  as  I  have  ever  heard, 
You'd  die  for  me  you  swore,  and  1  —  1  took  you  at 

your  word. 
I  was  a  tradesman's  widow  then  —  a  pretty  change  I've 

made  ; 
To  live  and  die  the  wife  of  one,  a  widower  hy  trade  ! " 

"  Come,  come,  my  dear,  these  flighty  airs  declare,  in 

sober  truth, 
You  want  as  much   in  age,  indeed,  as  I  can  want  in 

youth ; 
Besides,  you  said  you  liked  old  men,  though  now  at  me 

you  huff."  ' 
"  Why,  yes,"  she  said,  "  and  so  I  do  —  but  you're  not 

old  enough  !  " 


542  A   WINTER  NOSEGAY. 

"  Come,  come,  my  dear,  let's  make  it  up,  and  have  a 

quiet  hive  ; 
I'll  be  the  best  of  men  — I  mean,  1*11  be  the  best  alive! 
Your  grieving  so  will  kill   me,  for  it  cuts   me  to  the 

core." 
"I  thank  ye,  sir,  for  telling  me  —  for  now  I'll  grieve 

the  more." 


A  WINTER  NOSEGAY. 

Oh,  withered  winter  blossoms, 
Dowager-flowers,  —  the  December  vanity, 
In  antiquated  visages  and  bosoms,  — 

What  arc  ye  planned  for, 

Unless  to  stand  for 
Emblems,  and  peevish  morals  of  humanity? 

There  is  my  Quaker  Aunt, 
A  Paper-Flower,  —  with  a  formal  border 

No  breeze  could  e'er  disorder, 
Pouting  at  that  old  beau  —  the  Winter  Cherry, 

A  puckered  berry ; 
And  Box,  like  a  tough-lived  annuitant, — 

Verdant  alway  — 
From  quarter-day  even  to  quarter-day  ; 
And  poor  old  Honesty,  as  thin  as  want, 

Well  named  —  God-wot ; 
Under  the  baptism  of  the  water-pot, 
The  very  apparition  of  a  plant ; 

And  why 
Dost  hold  thy  head  so  high, 

Old  Winter-Daisy  ;  — 
Because  thy  virtue  never  was  infirm, 

Howe'er  thy  stalk  be  crazy  ? 
That  never  wanton  fly,  or  blighting  worm, 


SHE  IS  FAR  FROM  THE   LAND.  543 

Made  holes  in  thy  most  perfect  indentation  ? 

'Tis  likely  that  sour  leaf, 

To  garden  thief, 
Forcepped  or  winged,  was  never  a  temptation  ;  — 
Well,  —  still  uphold  thy  wintry  reputation  ; 
Still  shalt  thou  frown  upon  all  lovers'  trial: 
And  when,  like  Grecian  maids,  young  maids  of  ours 

Converse  with  flowers. 
Then  thou  shalt  be  the  token  of  denial. 

Away  !  dull  weeds, 
Born  without  beneficial  use  or  needs ! 
Fit  only  to  deck  out  cold  winding-sheets ; 
And  then  not  for  the  milkmaid's  funeral  bloom, 

Or  fair  Fidele's  tomb 

To  tantalize,  —  vile  cheats  ! 
Some  prodigal  bee,  with  hope  of  after-sweets, 

Frigid  and  rigid, 

As  if  ye  never  knew 

One  drop  of  dew, 
Or  the  warm  sun  resplendent ; 
Indifferent  of  culture  and  of  care, 
Giving  no  sweets  back  to  the  fostering  air, 
Churlishly  independent  — 

I  hate  ye,  of  all  breeds  ! 
Yea,  all  that  live  so  selfishly  —  to  self, 
And  not  by  interchange  of  kindly  deeds  — 

Hence  !  —  from  my  shelf ! 


SHE  IS  FAR  FROM  THE  LAND. 

Cables  entangling  her, 
Shipspars  for  mangling  her, 
Ropes,  sure  of  strangling  her; 
Blocks  over-dangling  her: 


544  SHE  IS  FAR  FROM  THE   LAND. 

Tiller  to  hatter  her, 
Topmast  to  shatter  her, 
Tobacco  to  spatter  her ; 
Boreas  blustering, 
Boatswain  quite  flustering, 
Thunder  clou. Is  mustering 
I'o  blast  her  with  sulphur  — 
It'  the  deep  don't  engulf  her  • 
Sometimes  fear's  scrutiny 
Pries  out  a  mutiny, 
Sniffs  conflagration, 
Or  hints  at  starvation  :  — 
All  the  sea-dangers, 
Buccaneers,  rangers, 
Pirates  and  Salle-men, 
Algerine  galley  men, 
Tornadoes  and  typhous, 
And  horrible  syphons, 
And  submarine  travels 
Through  roaring  sea-navels, 
Everything  wrong  enough, 
Long-boat  not  long  enough, 
Vessel  not  strong  enough  ; 
Pitch  marling  frippery, 
The  deck  very  slippery, 
And  the  cabin —  built  sloping, 
The  Captain  a-toping, 
And  the  mate  a  blasphemer, 
That  names  his  Redeemer 
With  inward  uneasiness  ; 
The  cook  known  by  greasiness, 
The  victuals  beslubbered, 
Her  bed  —  in  a  cupboard  ; 
Things  of  strange  christening, 
Snatched  in  her  listening, 


SHE   IS   FAR   FROJI  THE   LAND. 

Blue  lights  and  red  lights 
And  mention  of  dead-lights, 
And  shrouds  made  a  theme  of, 
Things  horrid  to  dream  of, — 
And  buoys  in  the  water, 
To  fear  all  exhort  her  ; 
Her  friend  no  Leander, 
Herself  no  sea-gander, 
And  ne'er  a  cork  jacket 
On  hoard  of  the  packet ! 
The  hreeze  still  a-stiffening, 
The  trumpet  quite  deafening; 
Thoughts  of  repentance, 
And  doomsday  and  sentence; 
Everything  sinister, 
Not  a  church  minister, — 
Pilot  a  blunderer, 
Coral  reefs  under  her, 
Ready  to  sunder  her  ; 
Trunks  tipsy-topsy, 
The  ship  in  a  dropsy ; 
Waves  oversurging  her, 
Sirens  a-dirgeing  her; 
Sharks  all  expecting  her, 
Swordfish  dissecting  her, 
Crabs  with  their  hand-vices 
Punishing  laud  vices ; 
Sea-dogs  and  unicorns, 
Things  with  no  puny  horns, 
Mermen  carnivorous  — 
"  Good  Lord  deliver  us !  " 


545 


64G 


TIM  TUUP1N. 

TIM   TURPIN. 

A   PATHETIC   BALLAD. 

Tim  Turpin  he  was  gravel  blind, 
And  ne'er  had  seen  the  skies  ; 

For  Nature,  when  his  head  was  made, 
Forgot  to  dot  his  eyes. 

So,  like  a  Christmas  pedagogue, 
Poor  Tim  was  forced  to  do  — 

Look  out  for  pupils  ;  for  he  had 
A  vacancy  for  two. 

There's  some  have  specs  to  help  their  si«M 

Of  objects  dim  and  small : 
But  Tim  had  specks  within  his  eyes, 

And  could  not  see  at  all. 

Now  Tim  he  wooed  a  servant  maid, 

And  took  her  to  his  arms  ; 
For  he,  like  Fyramus,  had  cast 

A  wall-eye  on  her  charms. 

By  day  she  led  him  up  and  down, 

Where'er  he  wished  to  jog, 
A  happy  wife,  although  she  led 

The  life  of  any  dog. 

But  just  when  Tim  had  lived  a  month 

In  honey  with  his  wife, 
A  surgeon  ope'd  his  Milton  eyes, 

Like  oysters,  with  a  knife. 


TIM  TURPIN.  547 

But  when  his  eyes  were  opened  thus, 

He  wished  them  dark  again  : 
For  when  he  looked  upon  his  wife, 

He  saw  her  very  plain. 

Her  face  was  bad,  her  figure  worse, 

He  couldn't  bear  to  eat : 
For  she  was  anything  but  like 

A  grace  before  his  meat. 


Now  Tim  he  was  a  feeling  man ; 

For  when  his  sight  was  thick 
It  made  him  feel  for  everything  — 

But  that  was  with  a  stick. 

So,  with  a  cudgel  in  his  hand  — 

It  was  not  light  or  slim  — 
He  knocked  at  his  wife's  head  until 

It  opened  unto  him. 

And  when  the  corpse  was  stiff  and  cold, 
He  took  his  slaughtered  spouse, 

And  laid  her  in  a  heap  with  all 
The  ashes  of  her  house. 

But  like  a  wicked  murderer, 

He  lived  in  constant  fear 
From  day  to  day,  and  so  he  cut 

His  throat  from  ear  to  ear. 

The  neighbors  fetched  a  doctor  in  ; 

Said  he,  "This  wound  I  dread 
Can  hardly  be  sewed  up  —  his  life 

Is  hanging  on  a  thread." 


5-48  TIM  TURPIN. 

But  when  another  week  was  gone, 
lie  gave  him  stronger  hope  — 

Instead  of  hanging  on  a  thread, 
Of"  hanging  on  a  rope. 


Ah  !  when  he  hid  his  bloody  work 

In  ashes  round  about, 
How  little  he  supposed  the  truth 

Would  soon  be  sifted  out. 

But  when  the  parish  dustman  came, 
His  rubbish  to  withdraw, 

He  found  more  dust  within  the  heap 
Than  he  contracted  for  ! 

A  dozen  men  to  try  the  fact 
Were  sworn  that  very  day  ; 

But  though  they  all  were  jurors,  yet 
No  conjurors  were  they. 

Said  Tim  unto  those  jurymen, 
You  need  not  waste  your  breath, 

For  I  confess  myself  at  once 
The  author  of  her  death. 

And  O  !  when  1  reflect  upon 
The  blood  tint  I  have  spilt, 

Just  like  a  button  is  my  soul. 
Inscribed  with  double  guilt! 

Then  turning  round  his  head  again, 

He  saw  before  his  eyes, 
A  great  judge,  and  a  little  judge. 

The  judges  of  a-size  ! 


THE    MOXKEY-MARTYB,  549 

The  great  judge  took  his  judgment-cap, 

And  put  it  on  his  head, 
And  sentenced  Tim  by  law  to  hang 

Till  he  was  three  times  dead. 

So  he  was  tried,  and  he  was  hung 

(Fit  punishment  for  such) 
On  Horsham-drop,  and  none  can  say 

It  was  a  drop  too  much. 


THE   MONKEY-MARTYR. 

A    FAP.LE. 

"  'God  help  thee,'  said  T,  'but  I'll  let  thee  out,  cost  what  it  will:'  sol 
turned  about  the  <  age  to  get  to  the  door."  —  Stekne. 

Tis  strange,  what  awkward  figures  and  odd  capers 
Folks  cut,  who  seek  their  doctrine  from  the  papers ; 
But  there  are  many  shallow  politicians, 
AY  ho  take  their  bras  from  bewildered  journals  — 

Turn  State  physicians, 
And  make  themselves  fools'-caps  of  the  diurnals. 

One  of  this  kind,  not  human,  but  a  monkey, 
Had  read  himself  at  last  to  this  sour  creed  — 
That  he  was  nothing  but  Oppression's  flunkey, 
And  man  a  tyrant  over  all  his  breed. 

He  could  not  read 
Of  niggers  whipt,  or  oyer-trampled  weavers, 
Rut  he  applied  their  wrongs  to  his  own  seed, 
And  nourished  thoughts  that  threw  him  into  fevers. 
His  very  dreams  were  full  of  martial  beavers, 
And  drilling  Pugs,  for  liberty  pugnacious, 

To  sever  chains  vexatious. 


550 


THE    MONKEY-MARTYK. 


In  fact,  he  thought  that  all  his  injured  line 
Should  take  up  pikes  in  hand,  and  never  drop  'em 
Till  they  had  cleared  a  road  to  Freedom's  shrine, 
Unless  perchance  the  turnpike  men  should  stop  'em 

Full  of  this  rancor, 
Pacing  one  day  beside  St.  Clement  Danes, 

It  came  into  his  hrains 
To  give  a  look  in  at  the  Crown  and  Anchor; 
Where  certain  solemn  sages  of  the  nation 
Were  at  that  moment  in  deliberation 
How  to  relieve  the  wide  world  of  its  chains, 
Pluck  despots  down, 
And  thereby  crown 
Whitee  as  well  as  blackee-man-cipation. 
Pug  heard  the  speeches  with  great  approbation, 
And  gazed  with  pride  upon  the  Liberators  ; 
To  see  mere  coal  heavers 
Such  perfect  Bolivars  — 
Waiters  of  inns  sublimed  to  innovators  — 
And  slaters  dignified  as  legislators  — 
Small  publicans  demanding  (such  their  high  sense 
Of  liberty)  an  universal  license  — 
And  patten-makers  easing  Freedom's  clo"s  — 
The  whole  tiling  seemed 
So  fine,  he  deemed 
The  smallest  demagogues  as  great  as  Gogs ! 

Pug,  with  some  curious  notions  in  his  noddle, 
Walked  out  at  last,  and  turned  into  the  Strand, 

To  the  left  hand, 
Conning  some  portions  of  the  previous  twaddle, 
And  striding  with  a  step  that  seemed  designed 
To  represent  the  mighty  March  of  Mind, 

Instead  of  that  slow  waddle 


THE   MONKEY-MARTYR.  551 

Of  thought,  to  which  our  ancestors  inclined. 
No  wonder,  then,  that  he  should  quickly  find 
He  stood  in  front  of  that  intrusive  pile, 

Where  Cross  keeps  many  a  kind 

Of  bird  confined, 
And  free-born  animal,  in  durance  vile  — 
A  thought  that  stirred  up  all  the  monkey-bile. 

The  window  stood  ajar  — 

It  was  not  far, 
Nor,  like  Parnassus,  very  hard  to  climb ; 
The  hour  was  verging  on  the  supper-time, 
And  many  a  growl  was  sent  through  many  a  bar. 
Meanwhile  Pug  scrambled  upward  like  a  tar, 

And  soon  crept  in, 

Unnoticed  in  the  din 
Of  tuneless  throats,  that  made  the  attics  ring 
With  all  the  harshest  notes  that  they  could  bring ; 

For,  like  the  Jews, 

Wild  beasts  refuse 
In  midst  of  their  captivity  —  to  sing. 

Lord  !  how  it  made  him  chafe, 
Full  of  his  new  emancipating  zeal, 
To  look  around  upon  this  brute  bastile, 
And  see  the  king  of  creatures  in  —  a  safe  / 
The  desert's  denizen  in  one  small  den, 
Swallowing  slavery's  most  bitter  pills  — 
A  bear  in  bars  unbearable.     And  then 
The  fretful  porcupine,  with  all  its  quills 

Imprisoned  in  a  pen! 
A  tiger  limited  to  four  feet  ten, 

And,  Still  worse  lot, 

A  leopard  to  one  spot ! 

An  elephant  enlarged, 

But  not  discharged, 


552 


Till;   MONKEY-MARTTR. 


(It  was  before  the  elephant  was  shot ;) 
A  doleful  wanderoo,  that  wandered  not; 
An  ounce  much  disproportipned  to  his  pound. 

Pug's  wrath  waxed  hot 
To  gaze  upon  these  captive  creatures  round  ; 
Whose  claws,  all  scratching,  gave  him  full  assurance 
They  found  their  durance  vile  of  vile  endurance. 

He  went  above  —  a  solitary  mounter 

Up  gloomy  stairs  —  and  saw  a  pensive  group 

Of  hapless  fowls  — 

Cranes,  vultures,  owls  ; 
In  fact,  it  was  a  sort  of  Poultry  Compter, 
Where  feathered  prisoners  were  doomed  to  droop; 
Here  sat  an  eagle,  forced  to  make  a  stoop, 
Not  from  the  skies,  but  his  impending  roof; 

And  there  aloof, 
A  pining  ostrich,  moping  in  a  coop ; 
With  other  samples  of  the  bird  creation, 
All  caged  against  their  powers  and  their  wills; 
And  cramped  in  such  a  space,  the  longest  bills 
Were  plainly  bills  of  least  accommodation. 
In  truth,  it  was  a  very  ugly  scene 
To  fall  to  any  liberator's  share, 
To  see  those  winged  fowls,  that  once  had  been 
Free  as  the  wind,  no  freer  than  fixed  air. 

His  temper  little  mended, 
Pug  from  this  Bird-cage  Walk  at  last  descended 

Unto  the  lion  and  the  elephant, 

His  bosom  in  a  pant 
To  see  all  nature's  Free  List  thus  suspended, 
And  beasts  deprived  of  what  she  had  intended. 

They  could  not  even  prey 

In  their  own  way  — 


THE    MCN  KEY-MARTYR.  553 

A  hardship  always  reckoned  quite  prodigious. 

Thus  he  revolved, 

And  soon  resolved 
To  give  them  freedom,  civil  and  religious. 

That  night  there  were  no  country  cousins,  raw 
From  Wales,  to  view  the  lion  and  his  kin : 
The  keeper's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  a  saw  ; 
The  saw  was  fixed  upon  a  bullock's  shin  ; 

Meanwhile  with  stealthy  paw, 

Pug  hastened  to  withdraw 
The  bolt  that  kept  the  king  of  brutes  within. 
Now,  monarch  of  the  forest !  thou  shalt  win 
Precious  enfranchisement  —  thy  bolts  are  undone; 
Thou  art  no  longer  a  degraded  creature, 
But  loose  to  roam  with  liberty  and  nature, 
And  free  of  all  the  jungles  about  London  — 
All  Hampstead's  healthy  desert  lies  before  thee! 
Methinks  I  see  thee  bound  from  Cross's  ark, 
Full  of  the  native  instinct  that  comes  o'er  thee, 

And  turn  a  ranger 
Of  Hounslow  Forest  and  the  Regent's  Park  — 
Thin  Rhodes's  cows,  the  mail-coach  steeds  endanger, 
And  gobble  parish  watchmen  after  dark  :  — 
Methinks  I  see  thee,  with  the  early  lark, 
Stealing  to  Merlin's  cave  —  (thy  cave).     Alas, 
That  such  bright  visions  should  not  come  to  pass ! 
Alas,  for  freedom,  and  for  freedom's  hero  ! 

Alas,  for  liberty  of  life  and  limb ! 
For  Pug  had  onlv  half  unbolted  Nero, 
When  Nero  bolted  him! 


j54  craniolooy. 


CRANIOLOGY. 


'Tis  strange  how  like  a  very  dunce, 

Man  —  with  his  bumps  upon  his  sconce, 

Has  lived  so  long,  and  yet  no  knowledge  he 

Has  had,  till  lately,  of  Phrenology  — 

A  science  that  by  simple  dint  of 

Head-combing  he  should  find  a  hint  of, 

When  scratching  o'er  those  little  poll-hills, 

The  faculties  throw  up  like  mole-hills ; 

A  science  that,  in  very  spite 

Of  all  his  teeth,  ne'er  came  to  light, 

For  though  he  knew  his  skull  had  grinders, 

Still  there  turned  up  no  organ  finders, 

Still  sages  wrote,  and  ages  fled, 

And  no  man's  head  came  in  his  head  — 

Not  even  the  pate  of  Erra  Pater 

Knew  aught  about  its  pia  mater. 

At  last  great  Dr.  Gall  bestirs  him  — 

I  don't  know  but  it  might  be  Spurzheim  — 

Though  native  of  a  dull  and  slow  land, 

And  makes  partition  of  our  Poll-land ; 

At  our  Acquisitiveness  guesses, 

And  all  those  necessary  nesses 

Indicative  of  human  habits, 

All  burrowing  in  the  head  like  rabbits. 

Thus  Veneration,  he  made  known, 

Had  got  a  lodging  at  the  Crown  ; 

And  Music  (see  Deville's  example) 

A  set  of  chambers  in  the  Temple  ; 

That  Language  taught  the  tongues  close  by, 

And  took  in  pupils  through  the  eye, 

Close  by  his  neighbor  Compulation, 

Who  taught  the  eyebrows  numeration. 


CRANIOLOGY  55& 

The  science  thus  —  to  speak  in  fit 

Terms  —  having  struggled  from  its  nit, 

Was  seized  on  by  a  swarm  of  Scotchmen, 

Those  scientificai  hotch-potch  men, 

Who  have  at  least  a  penny  clip, 

And  wallop  in  all  doctorship, 

Just  as  in  making  broth  they  smatter 

By  bobbing  twenty  tnings  in  water: 

These  men,  I  say,  made  quick  appliance 

And  close,  to  phrenologic  science  ; 

For  of  all  learned  themes  whatever, 

That  schools  and  colleges  deliver, 

There's  none  they  love  so  near  the  bodies, 

As  analyzing  their  own  noddles  ; 

Thus  in  a  trice  each  northern  blockhead 

Had  got  his  fingers  in  his  shock  head, 

And  of  his  bumps  was  babbling  yet  worse 

Than  poor  Miss  Capulet's  dry  wet-nurse  ; 

Till  having  been  sufficient  rangers 

Of  their  own  heads,  they  took  to  strangers 

And  found  in  Presbyterians'  polls 

The  things  they  hated  in  their  souls! 

For  Presbyterians  hear  with  passion 

Of  organs  joined  with  veneration. 

No  kind  there  was  of  human  pumpkin 

But  at  its  bumps  it  had  a  bumpkin ; 

Down  to  the  very  lowest  gullion, 

And  oiliest  skull  of  oily  scullion. 

No  great  man  died  but  this  they  did  do, 

They  begged  his  cranium  of  his  widow  ; 

No  murderer  died  by  law  disaster, 

But  they  took  off  his  sconce  in  plaster  ; 

For  thereon  they  could  show  depending, 

"The  head  and  front  of  his  offending;" 

How  that  his  philanthropic  bump 


556  CRANIOLOGY. 

Was  mastered  by  a  baser  lump  ; 
For  every  bum])  (these  wags  insist) 
Has  its  direct  antagonist, 
Each  striving  stoutly  to  prevail, 
Like  horses  knotted  tail  to  tail  ! 
And  many  a  stiff  and  sturdy  battle 
Occurs  between  these  adverse  cattle, 
The  secret  cause,  beyond  all  question, 
Of  aches  ascribed  to  indigestion,  — 
Whereas  'tis  but  two  knobby  rivals 
Tugging  together  like  sheer  devils, 
Till  one  gets'  mastery,  good  or  sinister, 
And  comes  in  like  a  new  prime-minister. 

Each  bias  in  some  master  node  is  :  — 
What  takes  M'Adam  where  a  road  is, 
To  hammer  little  pebbles  less? 
His  organ  of  Destruetiveness. 
AVhat  makes  great  Joseph  so  encumber 
Debate?  a  lumping  lump  of  Number  : 
Or  Malthus  rail  at  babies  so  ? 
The  smallness  of  his  Philopro  — 
What  severs  man  and  wife  ?  a  simple 
Defect  of  the  Adhesive  pimple  : 
Or  makes  weak  women  go  astray? 
Their  bumps  are  more  in  fault  than  they. 

These  facts  being  found  and  set  in  order 
By  grave  M.  D.'s  beyond  the  Border, 
To  make  them  for  some  months  eternal, 
Were  entered  monthly  in  a  journal, 
That  many  a  northern  sage  still  writes  in, 
And  throws  his  little  Northern  Lights  in, 
And  proves  and  proves  about  the  phrenos, 
A  great  deal  more  than  1  or  he  knows  : 


A  PARTHIAN  GLANCE. 

How  Music  suffers,  par  exemple, 

By  wearing  tight  hats  round  the  temple; 

What  ills  great  boxers  have  to  fear 

From  blisters  put  behind  the  ear  ; 

And  how  a  porter's  Veneration 

Is  hurt  by  porter's  occupation  ; 

Whether  shillelaghs  in  reality 

May  deaden  Individuality  ; 

Or  tongs  and  poker  be  creative 

Of  alterations  in  the  Amative  ; 

If  falls  from  scaffolds  make  us  less 

Inclined  to  all  Constructiveness  : 

With  more  such  matters,  all  applying 

To  heads  —  and  therefore  headtiying. 


557 


A   PARTHIAN  GLANCE. 

"  Swec-t  Memory,  wafted  by  thy  gentle  gale, 

Oft  up  the  .stream  of  time  I  turn  my  sail."  —  Rogers. 

Come,  my  Crony,  let's  think  upon  far-away  days, 

And  lift  up  a  little  Oblivion's  veil  ; 
Let's  consider  the  past  with  a  lingering  gace, 

Like  a  peacock  whose  eyes  are  inclined  to  his  tail. 

Ay,  come,  let  us  turn  our  attention  behind, 

Like  those  critics  whose  heads  are  so  heavy,  I  fear. 

That  (hey  cannot  keep  up  with  the  march  of  the  mind, 
And  so  turn  face  about  for  reviewing  the  rear. 

Looking  over  Time's  crupper  and  over  his  tail, 
O  !  what  ages  and  pages  there  are  to  revise  ! 

And  as  farther  our  bai  k-searching  glances  prevail, 
Like  the  emmets,  "  how  little  we  are  in  our  eyes  ! " 


558  A   PARTHIAN   GLANCE. 

What  a  sweet  pretty  innocent,  half  a  yard  long, 
On  a  dimity  lap  of  true  nursery  make ! 

I  can  fancy  I  hear  the  old  lullaby  song 

That  was  meant  to  compose  me,  but  kept  me  awake. 

Methinks  I  still  suffer  the  infantine  throes, 

When  my  flesh  was  a  cushion  for  any  long  pin  — 

Whilst  they  patted  my  body  to  comfort  my  woes, 
O  !  how  little  they  dreamt  they  were  driving  them  in ! 

Infant  sorrows  are  strong —  infant  pleasures  as  weak  — 
But  no  grief  was  allowed  to  indulge  in  its  note ; 

Did  you  ever  attempt  a  small  "  bubble  and  squeak," 
Through  the  Dalby's  Carminative  down  in  your  throat? 

Did  you  ever  go  up  to  the  roof  with  a  bounce  ? 

Did  you  over  come  down  to  the  floor  with  the  same? 
0  !  I  can't  but  agree  with  both  ends,  and  pronounce 

"Head  or  tails"  with  a  child,  an  unpleasantish  game! 

Then  an  urchin  —  I  see  myself  urchin,  indeed, 

With  a  smooth  Sunday  face  for  a  mother's  delight ; 

Why  should  weeks  have  an  end  ?  —  I  am  sure  there 
was  need 
Of  a  Sabbath  to  follow  each  Saturday  night. 

Was  your  face  ever  sent  to  the  housemaid  to  scrub  ? 

Have  you  ever  felt  huckaback  softened  with  sand? 
Had  you  ever  your  nose  towelled  up  to  a  snub, 

And  your  eyes  knuckled  out  with  the  back  of  the 
hand  ? 

Then  a  schoolboy  —  my  tailor  was  nothing  in  fault, 
For  an  urchin  will  grow  to  a  lad  by  degrees,  — 

But  how  well  I  remember  that  "  pepper  and  salt," 
That  was  down  to  the  elbows,  and  up  to  the  knees  1 


JACK   HALL.  553 

What  a  figure  it  cut  when  as  Norval  I  spoke ! 

With  a  lanky  right  leg  duly  planted  before; 
Whilst  I  told  of  the  chief  that  was  killed  by  my  stroke, 

And  extended  my  arms  as  "  the  arms  that  he  wore  !  " 

Next  a  lover  —  O  !  say,  were  you  ever  in  love  ? 

With  a  lady  too  cold  —  and  your  bosom  too  hot ! 
Have  you  bowed  to  a  shoe-tie,  and  knelt  to  a  glove  ? 

Like  a  beau  that  desired  to  be  tied  in  a  knot  ? 

With  the  Bride  all  in  white,  and  your  body  in  blue, 
Did  you  walk  up  the  aisle  —  the  genteelest  of  men  ? 

When  I  think  of  that  beautiful  vision  anew, 
O  !  I  seem  but  the  biffin  of  what  I  was  then ! 

I  am  withered  and  worn  by  a  premature  care, 

And  my  wrinkles  confess  the  decline  of  my  days ; 

Old  Time's  busy  hand  has  made  free  with  my  hair, 
And  I'm  seeking  to  hide  it  —  by  writing  for  bays. 


JACK    HALL. 


'Tis  very  hard  when  men  forsake 
This  melancholy  world,  and  make 
A  bed  of  turf,  they  cannot  take 

A  quiet  doze, 
But  certain  rogues  will  come  and  break 

Their  "  bone  repose." 

'Tis  hard  we  can't  give  up  our  breath, 
And  to  the  earth  our  earth  bequeath, 
Without  Death  Fetches  after  Death, 

Who  thus  exhume  us! 
And  snatch  us  from  our  homes  beneath, 

And  hearths  posthumous. 


560 


JACK    HALL. 

The  tender  lover  comes  to  rear 

The  mournful  urn,  and  shed  his  tear  — 

"  Her  glorious  dust,"  he  cries,  "  is  here  !  " 

Alack  !  alack ! 
The  while  his  Sacharissa  dear 

Is  in  a  sack  ! 

'Tis  hard  one  cannot  lie  amid 
The  mould  beneath  a  coffin-lid, 
But  thus  the  Faculty  will  bid 

Their  rogues  break  through  it! 
If  they  don't  want  us  there,  why  did 

They  send  us  to  it  ? 

One  of  these  sacrilegious  knaves, 
Who  crave  as  hungry  vulture  craves, 
Behaving  as  the  ghoul  behaves, 

'Neath  churchyard  wall  — 
Mayhap  because  he  fed  on  graves, 

Was  named  Jack  Hall. 

By  day  it  was  his  trade  to  go 
Tending  the  black  coach  to  and  fro ; 
And  sometimes  at  the  door  of  woe. 

With  emblems  suitable, 
He  stood  with  brother  Mute,  to  show 

That  life  is  mutable. 

But  long  before  they  passed  the  ferry, 
The  dead  that  he  had  helped  to  bury 
He  sacked  —  (he  had  a  sack  to  carry 

The  bodies  off  in  ;) 
In  fact,  he  let  them  have  a  very 

Short  fit  of  coffin. 


JACK   HALL.  561 

Night  after  night,  with  crow  and  spade, 
He  drove  this  dead  but  thriving  trade, 
Meanwhile  his  conscience  never  weighed 

A  single  horsehair  ; 
On  corses  of  all  kinds  he  preyed, 

A  perfect  corsair ! 

At  last  —  it  may  be,  Death  took  spite, 
Or  jesting,  only  meant  to  fright  — 
He  sought  for  Jack  night  after  night 

The  churchyards  round  ; 
And  soon  they  met,  the  man  and  sprite, 

In  Pancras'  ground. 

Jack,  by  the  glimpses  of  the  moon, 
Perceived  the  bony  knacker  soon, 
/vn  awful  shape  to  meet  at  noon 

Of  night  and  lonely  ; 
But  Jack's  tough  courage  did  but  swoon 

A  minute  only. 

Anon  he  gave  his  spade  a  swing 
Aloft,  and  kept  it  brandishing, 
Ready  for  what  mishaps  might  spring 

From  this  conjunction  ; 
Funking  indeed  was  quite  a  thing 

Beside  his  function. 


"  Hollo  !  "  cried  Death,  "  d'ye  wish  your  sands 
Bun  out  ?  the  stoutest  never  stands 
A  chance  with  me,  —  to  my  commands 

The  strongest  truckles  ; 
But  Pin  your  friend —  so  let's  shake  hands, 

I  should  say  —  knuckles." 


562 


JACK   HALL. 

Jack,  glad  to  see  the  old  sprite  so  sprightly, 
And  meaning  nothing  but  uprightly, 
Shook  hands  at  once,  and  bowing  slightly, 

His  mull  did  proffer  : 
But  Death,  who  had  no  nose,  politely 

Declined  the  offer. 

Then  sitting  down  upon  a  hank 
Leg  over  leg,  shank  over  shank, 
Like  friends  for  conversation  frank, 

That  had  no  check  on  : 
Quoth  Jack  unto  the  Lean  and  Lank, 

"  You're  Death,  I  reckon." 

The  Jaw-bone  grinned  :  —  "I  am  that  same, 
You've  hit  exactly  on  my  name ; 
In  truth  it  has  some  little  fame 

Where  burial  sod  is." 
Quoth  Jack  (and  winked).  "  Of  course  ye  came 

Here  after  bodies." 

Death  grinned  again  and  shook  his  head : 
"  I've  little  business  with  the  dead  ; 
When  they  are  fairly  sent  to  bed 

I've  done  my  turn  : 
Whether  or  not  the  worms  are  fed 

Is  your  concern. 

"  My  errand  here,  in  meeting  you, 
Is  nothing  but  a  '  how-d'ye-do ' ; 
I've  done  what  jobs  I  had  —  a  few, 

Along  this  way ; 
If  I  can  serve  a  crony  too, 

I  beg  you'll  say." 


JACK  HALL.  563 

Quoth  Jack,  "  Your  Honor's  very  kind ; 
And  now  I  call  the  thing  to  mind, 
This  parish  very  strict  I  find ; 

But  in  the  next  'un 
There  lives  a  very  well-inclined 

Old  sort  of  sexton." 

Death  took  the  hint,  and  gave  a  wink 
As  well  as  eyelet-holes  can  blink ; 
Then  stretching  out  his  arm  to  link 

The  other's  arm,  — 
"  Suppose,"  says  he,  "  we  have  a  drink 

Of  something  warm." 

Jack  nothing  loth,  with  friendly  ease 
Spoke  up  at  once  :  —  "  Why,  what  ye  please; 
Hard  by  there  is  the  Cheshire  Cheese, 

A  famous  tap." 
But  this  suggestion  seemed  to  tease 

The  bony  chap. 

"No,  no  !  —  your  mortal  drinks  are  heady, 
And  only  make  my  hand  unsteady  ; 
I  do  not  even  care  lor  Dead)', 

And  loathe  your  rum  ; 
But  I've  some  glorious  brewage  ready, 

My  drink  is  —  mum  !  " 

And  off  they  set,  each  right  content  — 
Who  knows  the  dreary  way  they  went? 
But  Jack  felt  rather  faint  and  spent, 

And  out  of  breath  ; 
At  last  he  saw,  quite  evident, 

The  Door  of  Death. 


564  JACK   HALL. 

All  other  men  had  been  unmanned 
To  see  a  coffin  on  each  hand, 
That  served  a  skeleton  to  stand 

By  way  of  sentry  ; 
In  fact,  Death  has  a  very  grand 

And  awful  entry. 

Throughout  his  dismal  sign  prevails, 
His  name  is  writ  in  coffin-nails ; 
The  mortal  darts  make  area  rails ; 

A  skull  that  mocketh 
Grins  on  the  gloomy  gate,  and  quails 

Whoever  knocketh. 

And  lo  !  on  either  side,  arise 

Two  monstrous  pillars  —  bones  of  thighs  ; 

A  monumental  slab  supplies 

The  step  of  stone 
Where,  waiting  for  his  master,  lies 

A  dog  of  bone. 

The  dog  leapt  up,  but  gave  no  yell, 
The  wire  was  pulled,  but  woke  no  bell, 
The  ghastly  knocker  rose  and  fell, 

But  caused  no  riot ; 
The  ways  of  Death,  we  all  know  well, 

Are  very  quiet. 

Old  Bones  stepped  in  ;  Jack  stepped  behind : 
Quoth  Death,  "  I  really  hope  you'll  find 
The  entertainment  to  your  mind, 

As  I  shall  treat  ye  — 
A  friend  or  two  of  goblin  kind 

I've  asked  to  meet  ye." 


JACK  HALL.  565 

And  lo  !  a  crowd  of  spectres  tall, 
Like  jack-a-lanterns  on  a  wall, 
Were  standing  —  every  ghastly  ball 

An  eager  watcher. 
"  My  friends,"  says  Death  —  "  friends,  Mr.  Hall, 

The  body-snatcher." 

Lord  !  what  a  tumult  it  produced, 
When  Mr.  Hall  was  introduced  ! 
Jack  even,  who  had  long  been  used 

To  frightful  things, 
Felt  just  as  if  his  back  was  sluiced 

With  freezing  springs ! 

Each  goblin  face  began  to  make 

Some  horrid  mouth  —  ape  —  gorgon  —  snake ; 

And  then  a  spectre  hag  would  shake 

An  airy  thighbone ; 
And  cried  (or  seemed  to  cry)  I'll  break 

Your  bone,  with  my  bone  ! 

Some  ground  their  teeth  —  some  seemed  to  spit  — - 
(Nothing,  but  nothing  came  of  it  ;) 
A  hundred  awful  brows  were  knit 

In  dreadful  spite. 
Thought  Jack  —  I'm  sure  I'd  better  quit, 

Without  good-night. 

One  skip  and  hop  and  he  was  clear, 
And  running  like  a  hunted  deer, 
As  fleet  as  people  run  by  fear 

Well  .spurred  and  whipped, 
Death,  ghosts,  and  all  in  that  career 

Were  quite  outstripped. 


666  JACK   HALL. 

But  those  who  live  by  death  must  die  ; 
Jack's  soul  at  last  prepared  to  fly  ;. 
And  when  his  latter  end  drew  nigh, 

0  !  what  a  swarm 
Of  doctors  came,  —  but  not  to  try 

To  keep  him  warm. 

No  ravens  ever  scented  prey 
So  early  where  a  dead  horse  lay, 
Nor  vultures  sniffed  so  far  away 

A  last  convulse : 
A  dozen  "  guests  "  day  after  day 

Were  "  at  his  pulse." 

'Twas  strange,  although  they  got  no  fees, 
How  still  they  watched  by  twos  and  threes: 
But  Jack  a  very  little  ease 

Obtained  from  them ; 
In  fact,  he  did  not  find  M.  U.s 

Worth  one  D — M. 

The  passing  bell  with  hollow  toll 
Was  in  his  thought  —  the  dreary  hole  ! 
Jack  gave  his  eyes  a  horrid  roll, 
And  then  a  cough. 
"  There's  something  weighing  on  my  soul 

1  wish  was  off: 

"  All  night  it  roves  about  my  brains, 
All  day  it  adds  to  all  my  pains  ; 
It  is  concerning  my  remains 

When  I  am  dead." 
Twelve  wigs  and  twelve  gold-headed  canes 

Drew  near  his  bed. 


JACK  HALL.  567 

"Alas  !  "  he  sighed,  "  I'm  sore  afraid, 
A  dozen  pangs  my  heart  invade  ; 
But  when  I  drove  a  certain  trade 

In  flesh  and  bone, 
There  was  a  little  bargain  made 

About  my  own." 

Twelve  suits  of  black  began  to  close, 
Twelve  pairs  of  sleek  and  sable  hose, 
Twelve  flowing  cambric  frills  in  rows, 

At  once  drew  round  ; 
Twelve  noses  turned  against  his  nose, 

Twelve  snubs  profound. 

"  Ten  guineas  did  not  quite  suffice, 
And  so  I  sold  my  body  twice  ; 
Twice  did  not  do  —  I  sold  it  thrice  : 

Forgive  my  crimes ! 
In  short,  I  have  received  its  price 

A  dozen  times  !  " 

Twelve  brows  got  very  grim  and  black, 
Twelve  wishes  stretched  him  on  the  rack, 
Twelve  pairs  of  hands  for  fierce  attack 

Took  up  position, 
Ready  to  share  the  dying  Jack 

By  long  division. 

Twelve  angry  doctors  wrangled  so, 
That  twelve  had  struck  an  hour  ago, 
Before  they  had  an  eye  to  throw 

On  the  departed; 
Twelve  heads  turned  round  at  once,  and  lo! 

Twelve  doctors  started. 


568  *   BUTCHER. 

Whether  some  comrade  of  the  dead, 

Or  Satan  took  it  in  his  head, 

To  steal  the  corpse  —  the  corpse  had  fled  ! 

'Tis  only  written, 
That  "  there  teas  nothing  in  the  bed, 

But  twelve  were  bitten!" 


A    BUTCHER. 

Whoe'er  has  gone  through  London  Street 
Has  seen  a  Butcher  gazing  at  his  meat, 

And  how  he  keeps 

Gloating  upon  a  sheep's 
Or  bullock's  personals,  as  if  his  own  ; 

How  he  admires  his  halves 

And  quarters  —  and  his  calves, 
As  if  in  truth  upon  his  own  legs  grown; 

His  fat !   his  suet ! 
His  kidneys  peeping  elegantly  through  it! 

His  thick  flank ! 

And  his  thin  ! 
His  shank  ! 
His  shin ! 
Skin  of  his  skin,  and  bone,  too,  of  his  bone  ! 

With  what  an  air 
He  stands  aloof,  across  the  thoroughfare 
Gazing —  and  will  not  let  a  body  by. 
Though  buy  !  buy  !  buy  !  be  constantly  his  cry. 
Meanwhile  with  arms  akimbo,  and  a  pair 
Of  Rhodian  legs,  he  revels  in  a  stare 
At  his  Joint  Stock  —  for  one  may  call  it  so, 

Howbeit  without  a  Co. 


"DON'T  YOU  SMELL  FIRE?"  569 

The  dotage  of  self-love  was  never  fonder 

Than  he  of  his  brute  bodies  all  a-row  ; 

Narcissus  in  the  wave  did  never  ponder 
With  love  so  sh'ong, 
On  his  "  portrait  charmant," 

As  our  vain  Butcher  oa  his  carcass  yonder. 

Look  at  his  sleek  round  skull  ! 
How  bright  his  cheek,  how  rubicund  his  nose  is ! 

His  visage  seems  to  be 

Ripe  for  beef- tea  ; 
Of  brutal  juices  the  whole  man  is  full. 
In  fact,  fulfilling  the  metempsychosis, 
The  Butcher  is  already  half  a  Bull. 


"DON'T   YOU    SMELL    FIRE?" 

Run  !  — run  for  St.  Clement's  engine! 

For  the  Pawnbroker's  all  in  a  blaze, 
And  the  pledges  are  frying  and  singeing  — 

O,  how  the  poor  pawners  will  craze  ! 
Now  where  can  the  turncock  be  drinking? 

Was  there  ever  so  thirsty  an  elf? 
But  he  still  may  tope  on,  for  I'm  thinking 

That  the  plugs  are  as  dry  as  himself. 

The  engines!  I  hear  them  come  rumbling; 

There's  the  Phoenix!  the  Globe!  and  the  Sun! 
What  a  row  there  will  be  and  a  grumbling, 

When  the  water  don't  start  fur  a  run! 
See  !  there  they  come  racing  and  tearing, 

All  the  street  with  loud  voices  is  filled; 
O,  it's  only  the  firemen  a-swearing 

At  a  man  they've  run  over  and  killed  ! 


570  "DON'T  YOU  SMULL  FIRE?" 

How  sweetly  the  sparks  fly  away  now, 

And  twinkle  like  stars  in  the  sky. 
It's  a  wonder  the  engines  don't  play  now; 

But  I  never  saw  water  so  shy ! 
Why,  there  isn't  enough  for  a  snipe, 

And  tiie  fire  it  is  fiercer,  alas ! 
O,  instead  of  the  New  River  pipe, 

They  have  gone  —  that  they  have — to  the  gas! 

Only  look  at  the  poor  little  P 's 

On  the  roof,     is  there  anything  sadder? 
My  dears,  keep  fast  hold,  if  you  please, 

And  they  won't  be  an  hour  with  the  ladder ! 
But  if  any  one  's  hot  in  their  feet, 

And  in  very  great  haste  to  be  saved, 
Here's  a  nice  easy  bit  in  the  street, 

That  M'Adam  lias  lately  unpaved. 

There  is  some  one  —  I  see  a  dark  shape 

At  that  window,  the  hottest  of  all,  — 
My  good  woman,  why  don't  you  escape  ? 

Never  think  of  your  bonnet  and  shawl: 
If  your  dress  isn't  perfect,  what  is  it 

For  once  in  a  way  to  your  hurt  ? 
When  your  husband  is  paying  a  visit 

There,  at  Number  Fourteen,  in  his  shirt ! 

Only  see  how  she  throws  out  her  chaney  ! 

Her  basins,  and  teapots,  and  all 
The  most  brittle  of  her  goods  —  or  any, 

But  they  all  break  in  breaking  their  fall: 
Such  things  are  not  surely  the  best 

From  a  two-story  window  to  throw  — 
She  might  save  a  good  iron-bound  chest, 

For  there's  plenty  of  people  below ! 


t 


THE   VOLUNTEER;  571 

0  dear  !   what  a  beautiful  flash  ! 

How  it  shone  through  the  window  and  door! 
We  shall  soon  hear  a  scream  and  a  crash, 

When  the  woman  falls  through  with  the  floor! 
There  !  there  !   what  a  volley  of  flame, 

And  then  suddenly  all  is  obscured  !  — ■ 
Well  —  I'm  glad  in  my  heart  that  I  came  ; 

But  I  hope  the  poor  man  is  insured ! 


THE   VOLUNTEER. 

"  The  clashing  of  my  armor  in  my  oars 
Sounds  like  a  passing  bell  ;  my  buckler  puts  me 
In  mind  of  a  bier;  this,  my  broadside,  a  pickaxe 
To  difj  my  grave."—  The  Lover  &  Progress. 

'TwAS  in  that  memorable  year 
France  threatened  to  put  off  in 
Flat-bottomed  boats,  intending  each 
To  he  a  British  coffin, 
To  make  sad  widows  of  our  wives, 
And  every  babe  an  orphan  :  — 

When  coats  were  made  of  scarlet  cloaks, 

And  heads  were  dredged  with  flour, 

I  'listed  in  the  Lawyers'  Corps, 

Against  the  battle  hour  ; 

A  perfect  Volunteer  —  for  why  ? 

I  brought  my  "  will  and  power." 

One  dreary  day  —  a  day  of  dread, 

Like  Cato's,  over-cast  — 

About  the  hour  of  six,  (the  morn 

And  I  were  breaking  fast,) 

There  came  a  loud  and  sudden  sound, 

That  struck  me  all  aghast ! 


57^$  THK   VOLUNTEER. 

A  dismal  sort  of  morning  roll, 
That  was  not  to  be  eaten  : 
Although  it  was  no  skin  of  mine 
But  parchment  that  was  beaten, 
I  felt  tattooed  through  all  my  flesh, 
Like  any  Otaheitan. 

My  jaws  with  utter  dread  enclosed 

The  morsel  I  was  munching, 

And  terror  locked  them  up  so  tight, 

My  very  teeth  went  crunching 

All  through  my  bread  and  tongue  at  once, 

Like  sandwich  made  at  lunching. 

My  hand  that  held  the  teapot  fast, 

Stiffened,  but  yet  unsteady, 

Kept  pouring,  pouring,  pouring  o'er 

The  cup  in  one  long  eddy, 

Till  both  my  hose  were  marked  with  tea, 

As  they  were  marked  already. 

I  felt  my  visage  turn  from  red 
To  white  —  from  cold  to  hot ; 
But  it  was  nothing  wonderful 
My  color  changed,  I  wot, 
For,  like  some  variable  silks, 
I  felt  that  I  was  shot. 

And  looking  forth  with  anxious  eye, 

From  my  snug  upper  story, 

I  saw  our  melancholy  corps 

Going  to  beds  all  gory  ; 

The  pioneers  seemed  very  loth 

To  axe  their  way  to  glory. 


THE   VOLUNTEER.  573 

The  captain  marched  as  mourners  march, 
The  ensign,  too,  seemed  lagging, 
And  many  more,  although  they  were 
No  ensigns,  took  to  flagging  — 
Like  corpses  in  the  Serpentine, 
Methought  they  wanted  dragging. 

But  while  I  watched,  the  thought  of  death 

Came  like  a  chilly  gust, 

And  lo !  I  shut  the  window  down, 

With  very  little  lust 

To  join  so  many  marching  men, 

That  soon  might  be  March  dust. 

Quoth  I,  "  Since  Fate  ordains  it  so, 

Our  foe  the  coast  must  land  on;" 

I  felt  so  warm  beside  the  fire 

I  cared  not  to  abandon  ; 

Our  hearths  and  homes  are  always  things 

That  patriots  make  a  stand  on. 

"  The  fools  that  fight  abroad  for  home," 
Thought  I,  "  may  get  a  wrong  one  ; 
Let  those  that  have  no  home  at  all 
Go  battle  for  a  long  one." 
The  mirror  here  confirmed  me  this 
Reflection,  by  a  strong  one  : 

For  there,  where  I  was  wont  to  shave, 

And  deck  me  like  Adonis, 

There  stood  the  leader  of  our  foes, 

With  vultures  for  his  cronies  — 

No  Corsican,  but  Death  itself, 

The  Bony  of  all  Bonies. 


574 


THE   VOLUNTEER. 

A  horrid  sight  it  was,  and  sad, 

To  see  the  grisly  chap 

Put  on  my  crimson  livery, 

And  then  hegin  to  clap 

My  helmet  on  —  ah  me!  it  felt 

Like  any  felon's  cap. 

My  plume  seemed  borrowed  from  a  hearse, 

An  undertaker's  crest ; 

My  epaulettes  like  coffin-plates  ; 

My  belt  so  heavy  pressed, 

Four  pipeclay  cross-roads  seemed  to  lie 

At  once  upon  my  breast. 

My  brazen  breastplate  only  lacked 

A  little  heap  of  salt, 

To  make  me  like  a  corpse  full  dressed, 

Preparing  for  the  vault  — 

To  set  up  what  the  Poet  calls 

My  everlasting  halt. 

This  funeral  show  inclined  me  quite 

To  peace  :  —  and  here  I  am  ! 

Whilst  better  lions  go  to  war, 

Enjoying  with  the  lamb 

A  lengthened  life,  that  might  have  been 

A  martial  epigram. 


THE   WIDOW.  575 


THE   WIDOW. 

One  widow  at  a  grave  will  sob 
A  little  while,  and  weep,  and  sigh! 
If  two  should  meet  on  such  a  job, 
They'll  have  a  gossip  by-and-by. 
If  three  should  come  together  —  why, 
Three  widows  are  good  company  ! 
If  four  should  meet  by  any  chance, 
Four  is  a  number  very  nice, 
To  have  a  rubber  in  a  trice  — 
But  five  will  up  and  have  a  dance ! 

Poor  Mrs.  C (why  should  I  not 

Declare  her  name  P  —  her  name  was  Cross) 

Was  one  of  those  the  "  common  lot " 

Had  left  to  weep  "  no  common  loss"; 

For  she  had  lately  buried  then 

A  man,  the  "  very  best  of  men," 

A  lingering  truth,  discovered  first 

Whenever  men  "  are  at  the  worst." 

To  take  the  measure  of  her  woe, 

It  was  some  dozen  inches  deep  — 

I  mean  in  crape,  and  hung  so  low, 

It  hid  the  drops  she  did  not  weep  : 

la  fact,  what  human  life  appears, 

It  was  a  perfect  "  veil  of  tears." 

Though  ever  since  she  lost  "  her  prop 

And  stay  "  —  alas  !   he  wouldn't  stay — 

She  never  had  a  tear  to  mop, 

Except  one  little  angry  drop 

From  Passion's  eye,  as  Moore  would  say, 

Because,  when  Mister  Cross  took  flight, 

It  looked  so  very  like  a  spite  — 

He  died  upon  a  washing-day  ! 


+ 


57G  THE    WIDOW. 

Still  Widow  Cross  went  twice  a  week, 

As  if  "  to  wet  a  widow's  cheek," 

And  soothe  his  grave  with  sorrow's  gravy  — 

'Twas  nothing  but  a  make-believe, 

She  might  as  well  have  hoped  to  grieve 

Enough  of  brine  to  float  a  navy  ; 

And  yet  she  often  seemed  to  raise 

A  cambric  kerchief  to  her  eye  — 

A  duster  ought  to  be  the  phrase, 

Its  work  was  all  so  very  dry. 

The  springs  were  locked  that  ought  to  flow  — 

In  England  or  in  widow-woman  — 

As  those  that  watch  the  weather  know, 

Such  "backward  Springs"  are  not  uncommon. 

But  why  did  Widow  Cross  take  pains 
To  call  upon  the  "dear  remains"  — 
Remains  that  could  not  tell  a  jot 
Whether  she  ever  wept  or  not, 
Or  how  his  relict  took  her  losses  ? 
O  !  my  black  ink  turns  red  for  shame  — 
But  still  the  naughty  world  must  learn, 
There  was  a  little  German  came 
To  shed  a  tear  in  "Anna's  Urn," 
At  the  next  grave  to  Mr.  Cross's ! 
For  there  an  angel's  virtues  slept, 
"Too  soon  did  Heaven  assert  its  claim!" 
But  still  her  painted  face  he  kept, 
"  Encompassed  in  an  angel's  frame." 

He  looked  quite  sad  and  quite  deprived, 
His  head  was  nothing  but  a  hat-band; 
He  looked  so  lone,  and  so  uwwived, 
That  soon  the  Widow  Cross  contrived 
To  fall  in  love  with  even  that  band ! 


THE   WIDOW. 


577 


And  all  at  once  the  brackish  juices 

Came  gushing  out  through  sorrow's  sluices  — 

Tear  after  tear  too  fast  to  wipe, 

Though  sopped,  and  sopped,  and  sopped  again, 

No  leak  in  sorrow's  private  pipe, 

But  like  a  bursting  on  the  main ! 

Whoe'er  has  watched  the  window-pane  — 

I  mean  to  say  in  showery  weather  — 

Has  seen  two  little  drops  of  rain, 

Like  lovers  very  fond  and  fain, 

At  one  another  creeping,  creeping, 

Till  botli,  at  last,  embrace  together : 

So  fared  it  with  that  couple's  weeping  ! 

The  principle  was  quite  as  active  — 

Tear  unto  tear 

Kept  drawing  near, 
Their  very  blacks  became  attractive. 
To  cut  a  shortish  story  shorter, 
Conceive  them  sitting  lete-a-tete  — 
Two  cups  —  hot  muffins  on  a  plate  — 
With  "Anna's  Urn  "  to  hold  hot  water  ! 
The  brazen  vessel  for  a  while 
Had  lectured  in  an  easy  song, 
Like  Abernethy —  on  the  bile  — 
The  scalded  herb  was  getting  strong; 
All  seemed  as  smooth  as  smooth  could  be, 
To  have  a  cosy  cup  of  tea. 
Alas!  how  often  human  sippers 
With  unexpected  bitters  meet, 
And  buds,  the  sweetest  of  the  sweet, 
Like  sugar,  only  meet  the  nippers ! 

The  Widow  Cross,  I  should  have  told, 
Had  seen  three  husbands  to  the  mould: 
She  never  sought  an  Indian  pyre, 


578  THE  WIDOW. 

Like  Hindoo  wives  that  lose  their  loves j 
But,  with  a  proper  sense  of  fire, 
Put  up,  instead,  with  "  three  removes." 
Thus,  when  with  any  tender  words 
Or  tears  she  spoke  about  her  loss, 
The  dear  departed  Mr.  Cross 
Came  in  for  nothing  but  his  thirds; 
For,  as  all  widows  love  too  well, 
She  liked  upon  the  list  to  dwell, 
And  oft  ripped  up  the  old  disasters. 
She  might,  indeed,  have  been  supposed 
A  great  ship-owner  ;  for  she  prosed 
Eternally  of  her  Three  Masters ! 

Thus,  foolish  woman  !  while  she  nursed 

Her  mild  souchong,  she  talked  and  reckoned 

What  had  been  left  her  by  her  first, 

And  by  her  hist,  and  by  her  second. 

Alas!  not  all  her  annual  rents 

Could  then  entice  the  little  German  — 

Not  Mr.  Cross's  Three  per  Cents, 

Or  Consols,  ever  make  him  her  man. 

He  liked  her  cash,  he  liked  her  houses, 

But  not  that  dismal  bit  of  land 

She  always  settled  on  her  spouses. 

So  taking  up  his  hat  and  band, 

Said  he,  "  You'll  think  my  conduct  odd  — 

But  here  my  hopes  no  more  may  linger; 

I  thought  you  had  a  wedding-finger, 

But  0  !  it  is  a  curtain-rod  ! " 


A  sergeant  soon  came  down  to  York, 
With  ribbons  and  a  frill ; 

My  lads,"  said  lie,   "  let  broadcast  be 
\iid  come  away  in  drill." 


John  Trot. — Paere  579. 


JOHN  TKOT. 

JOHN  TROT. 

A   BALLAD. 

John  Trot  he  was  as  tall  a  lad 

As  York  did  ever  rear  — 
As  his  dear  Granny  used  to  say, 

He'd  make  a  grenadier. 

A  sergeant  soon  came  down  to  York, 

With  ribbons  and  a  frill  ; 
My  lads,  said  he,  let  broadcast  be, 

And  come  away  to  drill. 

But  when  he  wanted  John  to  'list, 

In  war  he  saw  no  fun, 
Where  what  is  called  a  raw  recruit 

Gets  often  over-done. 

Let  others  carry  guns,  said  he, 

And  go  to  war's  alarms, 
But  I  have  got  a  shoulder-knot 

Imposed  upon  my  arms. 

For  John  he  had  a  footman's  place 

To  wait  on  Lady  Wye  — 
She  was  a  dumpy  woman,  though 

Her  family  was  high. 

Now  when  two  years  had  passed  away, 

Her  lord  took  very  ill, 
And  left  her  to  her  widowhood, 

Of  course  more  dumpy  still. 


579 


580  .JOHN   TROT. 

Said  John,  I  am  a  proper  man, 

And  very  tall  to  see  ; 
Who  knows,  but  now  her  lord  is  low 

She  may  look  up  to  me  ? 

A  cunning  woman  told  me  once, 
Such  fortune  would  turn  up  ; 

She  was  a  kind  of  sorceress, 
But  studied  in  a  cup  ! 

So  he  walked  up  to  Lady  Wye, 
And  took  her  quite  amazed,  — 

She  thought,  though  John  was  tall  enough, 
He  wanted  to  be  raised. 

But  John  —  for  why  ?  she  was  a  dame 

Of  such  a  dwarfish  sort  — 
Had  only  come  to  bid  her  make 

Her  mourning  very  short. 

Said  he,  your  lord  is  dead  and  cold, 

You  only  cry  in  vain  ; 
Not  all  the  cries  of  London  now 

Could  call  him  back  again  ! 

You'll  soon  have  many  a  noble  beau, 

To  dry  your  noble  tears  — 
But  just  consider  this,  that  I 

Have  followed  you  for  years. 

And  though  you  are  above  me  far, 

What  matters  high  degree, 
When  you  are  only  four  foot  nine, 

And  I  am  six  foot  three  ! 


JOHN  TROT.  581 

For  though  you  are  of  lofty  race, 

And  I'm  a  low-born  elf; 
Yet  none  among  your  friends  could  say, 

You  matched  beneath  yourself. 

Said  she,  Such  insolence  as  this 

Can  be  no  common  case  ; 
Though  you  are  in  my  service,  sir, 

Your  love  is  out  of  place. 

O  Lady  Wye  !   O  Lady  Wye  ! 

Consider  what  you  do  ; 
How  can  you  be  so  short  with  me, 

I  am  not  so  with  you  ! 

Then  ringing  for  her  serving  men, 

They  showed  him  to  the  door  : 
Said  they,  you  turn  out  better  now, 

Why  didn't  you  before? 

They  stripped  his  coat,  and  gave  him  kicks 

For  all  his  wages  due  ; 
And  off,  instead  of  green  and  gold, 

He  went  in  black  and  blue. 

No  family  would  take  him  in, 

Because  of  his  discharge  ; 
So  he  made  up  his  mind  to  serve 

The  country  all  at  large. 

Huzza!   the  sergeant  cried,  and  put 

The  money  in  his  hand, 
And  with  a  shilling  cut  him  off 

From  his  paternal  land. 


582 


CONVEYANCING. 


For  when  his  regiment  went  to  fight 

At  Saragossa  town, 
A  Frenchman  thought  he  looked  too  tall, 

And  so  he  cut  him  down ! 


CONVEYANCING. 

O  London  is  the  place  for  all, 

In  love  with  locomotion  ! 
Still  to  and  fro  the  people  go 

Like  billows  of  the  ocean  ; 
Machine,  or  man,  or  caravan, 

Can  all  be  had  for  paying, 
When  great  estates,  or  heavy  weights, 

Or  bodies  want  conveying. 

There's  always  backs  about  in  packs, 

Wherein  you  may  be  shaken, 
And  Jarvis  is  not  always  drunk, 

Though  always  overtaken ; 
In  racing  tricks  he'll  never  mix, 

His  nags  are  in  their  last  days, 
And  slow  to  go,  although  they  show 

As  if  they  had  their  fast  days  ! 

Then  if  you  like  a  single  horse, 

This  age  is  quite  a  cab-age, 
A  car  not  quite  so  small  and  light 

As  those  of  our  queen  Mob  age  ; 
The  horses  have  been  broken  well, 

All  danger  is  rescinded, 
For  some  have  broken  both  their  knees, 

And  some  are  broken-winded. 


CONVEYANCING.  583 

If  you've  a  friend  at  Chelsea  end, 

The  stages  are  worth  knowing  — 
There  is  a  sort,  we  call  'em  short, 

Although  the  longest  going  — 
For  some  will  stop  at  Hatchett's  shop, 

Till  you  grow  faint  and  sicky, 
Perched  up  behind,  at  last  to  rind 

Your  dinner  is  all  dickey  ! 

Long  stages  run  from  every  yard  : 

But  if  you're  wise  and  frugal, 
You'll  never  go  with  any  Guard 

That  plays  upon  the  bugle, 
"  Ye  banks  and  braes,"  and  other  lays, 

And  ditties  everlasting, 
Like  miners  going  all  your  way, 

With  boring  and  with  blunting. 

Instead  of  journeys,  people  now 

May  go  upon  a  Ourney, 
With  steam  to  do  the  horses'  work, 

By  powers  of  attorney  ; 
Though  with  a  load  it  may  explode, 

And  you  may  all  he  uu-done  ! 
And  find  you're  going  up  to  heaven, 

Instead  of  v]>  to  London! 

To  speak  of  every  kind  nf  coach, 

It  is  not  my  intention  ; 
But  there  is  still  one  vehicle 

Deserves  a  little  mention  : 
The  world  a  sage  has  called  a  stage, 

With  all  its  living  lumber, 
And  Malthus  swears  it  always  hears 

Above  the  proper  number. 


584  !'M   KOT   A   SINGLE   MAN. 

The  law  will  transfer  house  or  land 

Forever  and  a  day  hence, 
For  lighter  things,  watch,  brooches,  rings, 

You'll  never  want  conveyance  ; 
Ho!  stop  the  thief!  my  handkerchief ! 

It  is  no  sight  for  laughter  — 
Away  it  goes,  and  leaves  my  nose 

To  join  in  running  after  ! 


I'M   NOT   A    SINGLE    MAN. 

"  Double,  Bingle,  a n a  the  rub."— Hotlk. 
"  This,  this  is  Solitude."  —  I1TBON. 

Well,  I  confess,  I  did  not  guess 

A  simple  marriage  vow 
Would  make  me  find  all  women-kind 

Such  unkind  women  now  ! 
They  need  not,  sure,  as  distant  be 

As  Java  or  Japan,  — 
Yet  every  Miss  reminds  me  this  — ■ 

I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 

Once  they  made  choice  of  my  bass  voice 

To  share  in  each  duet  ; 
So  well  I  danced,  I  somehow  chanced 

To  stand  in  every  set : 
They  now  declare  I  cannot  sing, 

And  dance  on  Bruin's  plan  ; 
Me  draw  !  —  me  paint !  me  anything  !  — 

I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 


I'M   NOT  A   SINGLE  MAN.  585 

Once  I  was  asked  advice,  and  tasked 

What  works  to  buy  or  not, 
And  "  would  I  read  that  passage  out 

I  so  admired  in  Scott?" 
They  then  could  bear  to  hear  one  read; 

But  if  I  now  began, 
How  they  would  snub,  "  My  pretty  page,"— ~ 

I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 

One  used  to  stitch  a  collar  then, 

Another  hemmed  a  frill  ; 
I  had  more  purses  netted  then 

Than  I  could  hope  to  fill. 
I  once  could  get  a  button  on, 

But  now  I  never  can  — 
My  buttons  then  were  Bachelor's  — 

I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 

O,  how  they  hated  politics 

Thrust  on  me  by  papa  : 
But  now  my  chat — they  all  leave  that 

To  entertain  mamma. 
Mamma,  who  praises  her  own  self, 

Instead  of  Jane  or  Ann, 
And  lays  "  her  girls  "  upon  the  shelf — 

I'm  not.  a  single  man  ! 

Ah  mc  how  strange  it  is  the  change, 

In  pailor  and  in  hall, 
They  treat  me  so,  if  I  but  <ro 

To  make  a  morning  cad. 
If  they  had  hair  in  papers  once, 

Bolt  up  the  .stairs  they  ran  ; 
They  now  sit  still  in  dishabille  — 

I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 


586  I'M   NOT  A    SINGLE  MAN. 

Miss  Mary  Bond  was  once  so  fond 

Of  Romans  and  of  Greeks  ; 
She  daily  sought  my  Cabinet 

To  study  my  antiques. 
Well,  now  she  doesn't  care  a  dump 

For  ancient  pot  or  pan, 
Her  taste  at  once  is  modernized  — 

I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 


■b' 


My  spouse  is  fond  of  homely  life, 

And  all  that  sort  of  thing  ; 
I  go  to  balls  without  my  wife, 

And  never  wear  a  ring  : 
And  yet  each  Miss  to  whom  I  come, 

As  strange  as  Genghis  Khan, 
Knows  by  some  sign,  I  can't  divine — ■ 

I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 


'O' 


Go  where  I  will,  I  but  intrude, 

I'm  left  in  crowded  rooms, 
Like  Zimmerman  on  Solitude, 

Or  Hervey  at  his  Tombs. 
From  head  to  heel,  they  make  me  feel, 

Of  quite  another  clan  ; 
Compelled  to  own,  though  left  alone, 

I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 


■e* 


Miss  Towne  the  toast,  though  she  can  boast 

A  nose  of  Roman  line, 
Will  turn  up  even  that  in  scorn 

At  compliments  of  mine  : 
She  should  have  seen  that  I  have  been 

Her  sex's  partisan, 
And  really  married  all  I  could  — 

I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 


I'M   NOT  A   SINGLE  MAN.  587 

'Tis  hard  to  see  how  others  fare, 

Whilst  I  rejected  stand,  — 
Will  no  one  take  my  arm  because 

They  cannot  have  my  hand  ? 
Miss  Parry,  that  for  some  would  go 

A  trip  to  Hindostan, 
With  me  don't  care  to  mount  a  stair  — 

I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 

Some  change,  of  course,  should  be  in  force, 

But,  surely,  not  so  much  — 
There  may  be  hands  I  may  not  squeeze, 

But  must  I  never  touch  ? 
Must  I  forbear  to  hand  a  chair, 

And  not  pick  up  a  fan  ? 
But  I  have  been  myself  picked  up  — 

I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 

Others  may  hint  a  lady's  tint 

Is  purest  red  and  white  — 
May  say  her  eyes  are  like  the  skies, 

So  very  blue  and  bright  — 
/  must  not  say  that  she  has  eyes, 

Or  if  I  so  began, 
I  have  my  fears  about  my  ears  — 

I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 

I  must  confess  I  did  not  guess 

A  simple  marriage  vow 
Would  make  me  find  all  women-kind 

Such  unkind  women  now  ; 
I  might  be  bashed  to  death,  or  smashed, 

By  Mr.  Pickford's  van, 
Without,  I  fear,  a  single  tear  — 

I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 


588  THE  BUKN1NU  OF   THE   LOVE-LETTER. 


THE  BURNING   OF   THE  LOVE-LETTER. 

"  Sometimes  they  were  put  to  the  proof,  bj  what  was  called  the  Ficrj 

Ordeal.'-  —  Uut.  Entj. 

No  morning  ever  seemed  so  long  ! 

1  tried  to  read  with  all  my  mighl  ! 
In  my  left  hand  "  My  Landlord's  Tales," 

And  threepence  ready  in  my  light. 

'Twas  twelve  at  last  —  my  heart  beat  high  ! 

The  Postman  rattled  at  the  door  — 
And  just  upon  her  road  to  church, 

I  dropt  the  "  Bride  of  Larnmermoor !  " 

I  seized  the  note —  I  flew  upstairs  — 
Flung-to  the  door,  and  locked  me  in  — 

With  panting  haste  I  tore  the  seal  — 
And  kissed  the  B  in  Benjamin  ! 

'Twas  full  of  love  —  to  rhyme  with  dove  — 
And  all  that  tender  sort  of  thing  — 

Of  sweet  and  meet  —  and  heart  and  dart  — 
But  not  a  word  about  a  ring  ! 

In  doubt  I  cast  it  in  the  flame, 

And  stood  to  watch  the  latest  spark  — 

And  saw  the  love  all  end  in  smoke  — 
Without  a  Parson  and  a  Clerk ! 


THE   SUBMARINE.  5S9 


THE    SUB-MARINE. 

It  was  a  brave  and  jolly  wight, 
His  cheek  w;.s  baked  and  brown, 

For  he  had  been  in  many  climes 
With  captains  of  renown, 

And  fought  with  those  who  fought  so  well 
At  Nile  and  Camperdown. 

His  coat  it  was  a  soldier  coat, 

Of  red  with  yellow  faced, 
But  (merman-like)  he  looked  marine 

All  downward  from  the  waist ; 
His  trousers  were  so  wide  and  blue, 

And  quite  in  sailor  taste ! 


He  put  the  rummer  to  his  lips, 
And  drank  a  jolly  draught; 

He  raised  the  rummer  many  times  — 
And  ever  as  he  quaffed, 

The  more  he  drank,  the  more  the  Ship 
Seemed  pitching  fore  and  aft ! 

The  Ship  seemed  pitching  fore  and  aft, 

As  in  a  heavy  squall ; 
It  gave  a  lurch,  and  down  he  went, 

Head-foremost  in  his  fall ! 
Three  times  he  did  not  rise,  alas  ! 

He  never  rose  at  all ! 


590 


THE   SUB  MAKINE. 

But  down  he  went,  right  down  at  one 

Like  any  stone  he  dived, 
He  could  not  see,  or  hear,  or  feel  — 

Of  senses  all  deprived  ! 
At  last  he  gave  a  look  around 

To  see  where  he  arrived  ! 

And  all  that  he  could  see  was  green, 
Sea-green  on  every  hand  ! 

And  then  he  tried  to  sound  heneath, 
And  all  he  felt  was  sand  ! 

There  he  was  fain  to  lie,  for  he 
Could  neither  sit  nor  stand  ! 

And  Io  !   above  his  head  there  bent 
A  strange  and  staring  lass  ! 

One  hand  was  in  her  yellow  hair, 
The  other  held  a  glass  ; 

A  mermaid  she  must  surely  be 
If  ever  mermaid  was  ! 

Her  fish-like  mouth  was  open  wide, 
Her  eyes  were  blue  and  pale, 

Her  dress  was  of  the  ocean  green, 
When  ruffled  by  a  gale  ; 

Thought  he,  "  Beneath  that  petticoat 
She  hides  a  salmon-tail  !  " 

She  looked  as  siren  ought  to  look, 

A  sharp  and  bitter  shrew, 
To  sing  deceiving  lullabies 

For  mariners  to  rue,  — 
But  when  he  saw  her  lips  apart, 

Tt  chilled  him  through  and  through  ! 


Till:  SUIJ-M.UUNE. 


591 


With  either  hand  he  stopped  his  ears 

Against  her  evil  cry  ; 
Alas,  alas,  for  all  his  care, 

His  doom  it  seemed  to  die, 
Her  voice  went  ringing  through  his  head, 

It  was  so  sharp  and  high  ! 

He  thrust  his  fingers  further  in 

At  each  unwilling  ear, 
But  still,  in  very  spite  of  all, 

The  words  were  plain  and  clear  : 
"  I  can't  stand  here  the  whole  day  long, 

To  hold  your  glass  of  beer  !  " 

With  opened  mouth  and  opened  eyes 

Up  rose  the  Sub-marine, 
And  gave  a  stare  to  find  the  sands 

And  deeps  where  he  had  been  : 
There  was  no  siren  with  her  glass. 

No  waters  ocean-green ! 

The  wet  deception  from  his  eyes 

Kept  fading  more  and  more, 
He  only  saw  the  barmaid  stand 

With  pouting  lip  before  — 
The  small  green  parlor  of  The  Shift 

And  little  sanded  floor ! 


— 


592  PAIN    IN   A   PLEASURE   BOAT. 

PAIN    IN    A    PLEASURE    BOAT. 

A   SEA   ECLOGUE. 
"  I  apprehend  j  i  >u  !  "  —  School  of  Reform. 

Boatman.  —  Shove  oft'  there  !  —  ship  the  rudder,  Bill  — 

cast  oft'!  she  's  under  way  ! 
Mrs.  F. —  She's   under   what?  —  I  hope   she's  not! 

good  gracious,  what  a  spray  ! 
Boatman.  —  Run  out  the  jib,  and  rig  the  boom  !  keep 

clear  of  those  two  brigs  ! 
Mrs.  F.  —  I  hope  they  don't  intend  some  joke  by  run- 
ning of  their  rigs ! 
Boatman.  —  Bill,  shift  them  bags  of  ballast  aft  —  she's 

rather  out  of  trim  ! 
Mrs.  F.  —  Great  bags  of  stone  !  they're  pretty  things 

to  help  a  boat  to  swim ! 
Boatman.  —  The  wind  is  fresh  —  if  she  don't  scud,  it's 

not  the  breeze's  fault! 
Mrs.  F.  —  Wind  fresh,  indeed !  I  never  feit  the  air  so 

full  of  salt! 
Boatman.  —  That  schooner,  Bill,  harn't  left  the  roads, 

with  oranges  and  nuts ! 
Mrs.  F.  —  If  seas  have  roads,  they're  very  rough  —  I 

never  felt  such  ruts  ! 
Boatman.  —  It's  neap,  ye  see,  she 's  heavy  lade,  and 

couldn't  pass  the  bar. 
Mrs.  F.  —  The  bar  !  what,  roads  with  turnpikes  too  ?    I 

wonder  where  they  are  ! 
Boatman.  —  Ho  !    Brig  ahoy  !  hard  up  !  hard  up  !  that 

lubber  cannot  steer  ! 
Mrs.  F.  —  Yes,  yes  —  hard  up  upon  a  rock  !     I  know 

some  danger  's  near  ! 
Lord,  there's  a  wave  !  it's  coming  in  !  and  roaring 

like  a  hull! 


PAIN   IX   A   PLEASURE   BOAT.  593 

Boatman.  —  Nothing,    Ma'am,   but   a    little    slop !    go 

large,  Bill  !  keep  her  full  ! 
Mrs.  F.  —  What,  keep   her   full!   what  daring  work! 

when  full,  she  must  go  clown  ! 
Boatman.  —  Why,  Bill,  it  lulls!   ease  off  a  bit — it's 

coming  off  the  town  ! 
Steady  your  helm!  we'll  clear  the  Pint!  lay  right  for 

yonder  pink  ! 
Mrs.   F. —  Be   steady — well,   I   hope   they  can!   but 

they've  got  a  pint  of  drink  ! 
Boatman.  —  Bill,  give  that  sheet  another  haul  —  she'll 

fetch  it  up  this  reach. 
Mrs.  F.  —  I'm  getting  rather  pale,  I  know,  and  they 

see  it  by  that  speech  ! 
I  wonder  what  it  is,  now,  hut  —  I  never  felt  so  queer! 
Boatman.  —  Bill,    mind   your   luff — why,   Bill,  1   say, 

she's  yawing —  keep  her  near! 
Mrs.  F.  —  Keep   near!   we're   going   further  off;   the 

land  's  behind  our  backs. 
Boatman.  —  Be  easy,  Ma'am,  it's  all  correct,  that's  only 

'cause  we  tacks ; 
We  shall  have  to  beat  about  a  bit  —  Bill,  keep  her 

out  to  sea. 
Mrs.  F.  —  Beat  who  about?  keep  who  at  sea»? —  how 

black  they  look  at  me  ! 
Boatman.  —  It's  veering  round  —  I  knew  it  would  !  off 

with  her  head  !  stand  by! 
Mrs.  F.  —  Off  with    her    head  !   whose  ?  where  ?  what 

with?  —  an  axe  I  seem  to  spy  ! 
Boatman.  —  She  can't  keep  her  own,  you  see  ;  we  shall 

have  to  pull  her  in  ! 
Mrs.  F.  —They'll  drown   me,  and  take  all  I  have!  my 

life  's  not  worth  a  pin  ! 
Boatman.  —  Look  out,  you  know,  be  ready,  Bill — just 

when  she  takes  the  sand ! 


594  LITEKAKY    AND    LITERAL. 

Mrs.  F. — The  sand  —  O  Lord  !  to   stop  my  mouth! 
how  everything  is  planned  ! 

Boatman.  —  The  handspike,  Bill  —  quick,  bear  a  hand ! 
now,  Ma'am,  just  step  ashore  ! 

Mrs.  F. —  What !  ain't  I  going  to  be  killed  —  and  wel- 
tered in  my  gore  ? 
Well,  Heaven  be  praised  !  but  I'll  not  go  a-sailing 
any  more  ! 


LITERARY   AND   LITERAL. 

The  March  of  Mind  upon  its  mighty  stilts, 
(A  spirit  by  no  means  to  fasten  mocks  on,) 
In  travelling   through   Berks,  Beds,   Notts,  and 
Wilts, 
Hants  —  Bucks,  Herts,  Oxon, 
Got  up  a  thing  our  ancestors  ne'er  thought  on, 
A  thing  that,  only  in  our  proper  youth, 
We  should  have  chuckled  at  —  in  sober  truth, 
A  Conversazione  at  Hog's  Norton  ! 

A  place  whose  native  dialect,  somehow, 
Has  always  by  an  adage  been  affronted, 
And  that  it  is  all  gutter als,  is  now 

Taken  for  grunted. 
Conceive  the  snoring  of  a  greedy  swine, 
The  slobbering  of  a  hungry  Ursine  Sloth  — 
If  you  have  ever  heard  such  creature  dine  — 
And  —  for  Hog's  Norton,  make  a  mix  of  both  ! 

O  shades  of  Shakspeare  !  Chaucer,  Spenser ! 

Milton  !  Pope  !  Gray !  Warton  ! 
OColman!  Kenny!  Blanche!  Boole!  Peake ! 

Pocock  !  Reynolds  !  Morton  ! 


LITERARY  AND  LITERAL.  595 

O  Grey !  Peel !  Sadler  !  Wilberforce !  Burdett ! 

Hume  !   Wilmot  Horton  ! 
Think  of  your  prose  and  verse,  and  worse,  delivered  iu 

Hog's  Norton ! 

The  founder  of  Hog's  Norton  Athenaeum 

Framed  her  society 

With  some  variety 
From  Mr.  Ptoscoe's  Liverpool  museum  ; 
Not  a  mere  picnic,  for  the  mind's  repast, 
But,  tempting  to  the  solid  knife-and-forker, 
It  held  its  sessions  in  the  house  that  last 

Had  killed  a  porker. 

It  chanced  one  Friday, 
One  Farmer  Grayley  stuck  a  very  big  hog, 
A  perfect  Gog  or  Magog  of  a  pig-hog, 
Which  made  of  course  a  literary  high  day,  — 
Not  that  our  Farmer  was  a  man  to  go 
With  literary  tastes  — so  far  from  suiting  'em, 
When  he  heard  mention  of  Professor  Crowe, 
Or  Lalla-2?ooM,  he  always  was  for  shooting  'em ! 
In  fact  in  letter,  he  was  quite  a  log, 

With  him  great  Bacon 

Was  literally  taken, 
And  Hogg  — ■  the  Poet  —  nothing  but  a  Hog  ! 
As  to  all  others  on  the  list  of  Fame, 
Although  they  were  discussed  and  mentioned  daily, 
He  only  recognized  one  classic  name, 
And   thought   that  she   had   hung   herself — Miss 
Baillie ! 

To  balance  this,  our  Farmer's  only  daughter 
Had  a  great  taste  for  the  Castalian  water  — 
A  Wordsworth  worshipper — a  Southey  wooer  — 
(Though  men  that  deal  in  water-color  cakes 


596 


LITERARY    AND    LITERAL. 


May  disbelieve  the  fact  —  yet  nothing  's  truer) 

She  got  the  bluer 
The  more  she  dipped  and  dabbled  in  the  Lakes. 
The  secret  truth  is,  Hope,  the  old  deceiver, 
At  future  Authorship  was  apt  to  hint, 
Producing  what  some  call  the  Type-us  Fever, 
Which  means  a  burning  to  be  seen  in  print. 

Of  learning's  laurels  —  Miss  Joanna  Baillie  — 

Of  Mrs.  Hemans  —  Mrs.  Wilson  —  daily 

Dreamt  Anne  Priscilla  Isabella  Grayley  ; 

And  Fancy  hinting  that  she  had  the  better 

Of  L.  E.  L.  by  one  initial  letter, 

She  thought  the  world  would  quite  enraptured  see 

"LOVE   LAYS    AND    I.YHICS 

BV 

A.  P.  I.  G." 

Accordingly,  with  very  great  propriety, 

She  joined  the  H.  N.  1}.  and  double  S., 

That  is  —  Hog's  Norton  Blue  Stocking  Society  ; 

And  saving  when  her  Pa  his  pigs  prohibited, 

Contributed 
Her  pork  and  poetry  towards  the  mess. 
This  feast,  we  said,  one  Friday  was  the  case, 
When  Farmer  Grayley  — from  Macbeth  to  quote- 
Screwing  his  courage  to  the  "sticking  place," 
Stuck  a  large  knife  into  a  grunter's  throat:  — 
A  kind  of  murder  that  the  law's  rebuke 
Seldom  condemns  by  shake  of  its  peruke, 
Showing  the  little  sympathy  of  big-wigs 

With  pig-wigs! 

The  swine  —  poor  wretch !  with  nobody  to  speak 

for  it, 
And  beg  its  life,  resolved  to  have  a  squeak  for  it ; 


LITEISAUY   AMJ   LITERAL. 


597 


So  —  like  the  fabled  swan  —  died  singing  out, 
And  thus  there  issued  from  the  farmer's  yard 
A  note  that  notified  without  a  card, 
An  invitation  to  the  evening  rout. 
And  when  the  time  came  duly,  —  "  at  the  close  of 
The  day,"  as  Beattie  has  it,  "  when  the  ham  —  " 
Bacon,  and  pork  were  ready  to  dispose  of, 
And  pettitoes  and  chit'lings  too,  to  cram, — 
Walked  in  the  H.  X.  15.  and  double  S.'s 
All  in  appropriate  and  swinish  dresses, 
For  lo  !   it  is  a  fact,  and  not  a  joke, 
Although  the  Muse  might  fairly  jest  upon  it, 
They  came  — each  "  Pig-faced  Lady,"  in  that  bonnet 
We  call  a  puke. 

The  Members  all  assembled  thus,  a  rare  woman 
At  pork  and  poetry  was  chosen  chairwoman ; 
In  fact,  the  bluest  of  the  blues,  Miss  Ikey, 
Whose  whole  pronunciation  was  so  piggy, 
She  always  named  the  authoress  of  "Psyche," 

As  Mrs.  Tigyeyl 

And  now  arose  a  question  of  some  moment, 

What  author  for  a  lecture  was  the  richer, 

Bacon  or  Hogg  ?  there  were  no  votes  for  Beaumont, 

But  some  for  Flitcher; 
While  others,  with  a  more  sagacious  reasoning, 

Proposed  another  work, 

And  thought  their  pork 
Would    prove    more    relishing    from   Thomson's 
Season-in<>: ! 


But,  practised  in  Shakspearian  readings  daily,— 
O  !  Miss  Macaulav!  Shakspeare  at  Hog's  Norton!  — 
Miss  Annie  Priscilla  Isabella  Grayley 
Selected  him  that  evening  to  snort  on. 


598 


A  GOOD  DIKECTION. 


In  short,  to  make  our  story  not  a  big  tale, 

Just  fancy  her  exerting 

Her  talents,  and  converting 
The  Winter's  Tale  to  something  like  a  pig-tale  ! 

Her  sister  auditory, 
All  sitting  round,  with  grave  and  learned  faces, 

Were  very  plauditory, 
Of  course,  and  clapped  her  at  the  proper  places ; 
Till  fanned  at  once  by  Fortune  and  the  Muse, 
She  thought  herself  the  blessedest  of  Blues. 
But  Happiness,  alas !  has  blights  of  ill, 
And  Pleasure's  bubbles  in  the  air  explode  ;  — 
There  is  no  travelling  through  life  but  still 
The  ship  will  meet  with  breakers  on  the  road  ! 

With  that  peculiar  voice 
Heard  only  from  Hog's  Norton  throats  and  noses, 
Miss  G.,  with  Perdita,  was  making  choice 
Of  birds  and  blossoms  for  her  summer  posies, 
When  coming  to  that  line,  where  Proserpine 
Lets  fall  her  flowers  from  the  wain  of  Dis ; 

Imagine  this  — 
Uprose  on  his  hind  legs,  old  Farmer  Grayley, 
Grunting  this  question  for  the  club's  digestion, 
"Ho  His's  wagon  go  from  the  Ould  Baaley?  " 


A    GOOD    DIRECTION. 

A  CERTAIN  gentleman,  whose  yellow  cheek 
Proclaimed  he  had  not  been  in  living  quite 

An  Anchorite  — 
Indeed,  he  scarcely  ever  knew  a  well  day ; 
At  last,  by  friends'  advice,  was  led  to  seek 
A  surgeon  of  great  note  —  named  Aberfeldie  j 


MARY'S   GHOST. 


5<jy 


A  very  famous  Author  upon  Diet, 
Who,  better  starred  than  Alchemists  of  old, 
By  dint  of  turning  mercury  to  gold, 
Jflad  settled  at  his  country  house  in  quiet. 
Our  i'atient,  after  some  impatient  rambles 
Through  Enfield  roads,  and  Enfield  lanes  of  brambles, 
At  last,  to  make  inquiry  had  the  nous, — 
"  Here,  my  good  man, 
Just  tell  me  if  you  can, 
Pray  which  is  Mr.  Aberfeldie's  house  ?  " 
The  man  thus  stopped  —  perusing  for  a  while 
The  yellow  visage  of  the  man  of  bile, 
At  last  made  answer,  with  a  broadish  grin  : 
"  Why,  turn  to  right  —  and  left  —  and  right  agin, 
The  road  's  direct  —  jou  cannot  fail  to  go  it." 
"  But  stop  —  my  worthy  fellow  !  —  one  word  more  — 
From  other  houses  how  am  I  to  know  it?  " 
u  How  !  —  why,  you'll  see  blue  pillars  at  the  door !  " 


MARY'S    GHOST. 

A   PATHETIC   BALLAD. 

TWAS  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
To  sleep  young  William  tried  ; 

When  Mary's  Ghost  came  stealing  in, 
And  stood  at  his  bed-side. 

O  William  dear!  O  William  dear! 

My  rest  eternal  ceases  • 
Alas  !   my  everlasting  peace 

Is  broken  into  pieces. 


COO  MARY'S   GHOST. 

I  thought  the  last  of  all  my  cares 
Would  end  with  my  last  minute ; 

But  though  I  went  to  my  long  home, 
I  didn't  stay  long  in  it. 

The  body-snatchers  they  have  come, 
And  made  a  snatch  at  me  ; 

It's  very  hard  them  kind  of  men 
Won't  let  a  body  be  ! 

You  thought  that  I  was  buried  deep, 
Quite  decent  like  and  chary, 

But  from  her  grave  in  Mary-hone, 
They've  come  and  boned  your  Mary. 

The  arm  that  used  to  take  your  arm 

Is  took  to  Dr.  Vyse  ; 
And  both  my  legs  are  gone  to  walk 

The  hospital  at  Guy's. 

I  vowed  that  you  should  have  my  hand, 

But  fate  gives  us  denial ; 
You'll  find  it  there,  at  Dr.  Bell's, 

In  spirits  and  a  vial. 

As  for  my  feet,  the  little  feet 
You  used  to  call  so  pretty, 

There's  one,  I  know,  in  Bedford  Rowr 
The  t'other 's  in  the  City. 

I  can't  tell  where  my  head  is  gone, 

But  Dr.  Carpue  can  ; 
As  for  my  trunk,  it's  all  packed  up, 

To  go  by  Pickford's  van. 


A  REPORT  FROM  BELOW.  601 

I  wish  you'd  go  to  Mr.  P., 

And  save  me  such  a  ride  ; 
I  don't  half  like  the  outside  place, 

They've  took  for  my  inside. 

The  cock  it  crows  —  I  must  be  gone  ! 

My  William,  we  must  part ! 
But  I'll  be  yours  in  death,  although 

Sir  Astley  has  my  heart. 

Don't  go  to  weep  upon  my  grave, 

And  think  that  there  I  be  ; 
They  haven't  left  an  atom  there 

Of  my  anatomie. 


A   REPORT   FROM   BELOW. 

"  Blow  high,  blow  low."  —  Sea  Sony. 

As  Mister  B.  and  Mistress  B. 

One  night  were  sitting  down  to  tea, 

Willi  toast  and  muffins  hot  — 

They  heard  a  loud  and  sudden  bounce, 

That  made  the  very  china  flounce  ; 

They  could  not  for  a  time  pronounce 

If  they  were  safe  or  shot  — ■ 

For  Memory  brought  a  deed  to  match 

At  Deptford  done  by  night  — 

Before  one  eye  appeared  a  Patch 

In  t'other  eye  a  Blight  ! 

To  be  belabored  out  of  life 

Without  some  small  attempt  at  strife, 


002  A  REPORT  FROM  niaow. 

Our  nature  will  not  grovel  ; 

One  impulse  moved  both  man  and  dame, 

He  seized  the  toners —  she  did  the  same, 

Leading  the  ruffian,  if  he  came, 

The  poker  and  the  shovel. 

Suppose  the  couple  standing  so, 

When  rushing  footsteps  from  below 

Made  pulses  fast  and  fervent, 

And  first  hurst  in  the  frantic  cat. 

All  steaming  like  a  brewer's  vat, 

And  then  —  as  white  as  my  cravat  — 

Poor  Mary  May,  the  servant ! 

Lord,  how  the  couple's  teeth  did  chatter, 

Master  and  Mistress  both  flew  at  her, 

"Speak!  Fire?  or  Murder?   What's  the  matter?" 

Till  Mary  getting  breath, 

Upon  her  tale  began  to  touch 

With  rapid  tongue,  full  trotting,  such 

As  if  she  thought  she  had  too  much 

To  tell  before  her  death  :  — 

"  We  was  both,  ma'am,  in   the   wash-house,  ma'am,  a- 

standirig  at  our  tubs, 
And   Mrs.   Round  was   seconding  what  little  things  I 

rubs  ; 
'  Mary,'  says  she  to  me,  '  I  say,'  —  and  there  she  stops 

for  coughin', 
'  That  dratted  copper  flue  has   took  to  smoking  very 

often, 
But  please  the  pigs,'  —  for  that's  her  way  of  swearing 

in  a  passion,  — 
'  I'll  blow  it  up,  and  not  be  set  a-coughin'  in  this  fash- 
ion !  ' 
Well,  down  she  takes  my  master's  horn  —  I  mean  his 

horn  for  loading, 


A   REPORT  FROM   BKLOW.  603 

And    empties    every    grain    alive  for  to  set    the    flue 

exploding. 
'  Lawk,  Mrs.  Round  ! '  says  I,  and  stares,  '  that  quantum 

is  improper, 
I'm    sart in    sure   it  can    not    take   a  pound  to   sky  a 

copper ; 
You'll  powder  both  our  heads  off,  so  1  tells  you,  with 

its  puff,' 
But  she  only  dried  her  fingers,  and  she  takes  a  pinch 

of  snuff. 
Well,  when  the  pinch  is  over  —  'Teach   your  grand- 
mother to  suck 
A  powder-horn,'  says  she.      '  Well,'  says  I,  '  I  wish  you 

luck.' 
Them  words  sets  up  her  back,  so  with  her  hands  upon 

her  hips, 
•  Come,'  says   she,  quite   in   a  huff,  '  come,  keep  your 

tongue  inside  jour  lips  ; 
Afore  ever  you  was  born,  I  was  well  used  to  things  like 

these  ; 
I  shall  put  it  in  the    grate,  and    let    it    turn   up  by 

degrees.' 
So  in  it  goes,  and  bounce  —  O  Lord  !  it  gives  us  such 

a  rattle, 
I  thought  we  both  were   canonized,  like  sogers  in  a 

battle  ! 
Up  goes  the  copper  like  a  squib,  and  us  on  both  our 

backs 
And  bless  the  tubs,  they  bundled  off,  and  split  all  into 

cracks. 
Well,  there  I  fainted  dead  away,  and  might  have  been 

cut  shorter, 
But   Providence   was   kind,  and   brought   me  to  with 

scalding  water. 


G04  A   REPORT   FROM   BELOW. 

I  first  looks  round  for  Mrs.  Round,  and  sees  her  at  a 

distance, 
As  stiff  as  starch,  and  looked  as  dead  as  anything  in 

existence  ; 
All  scorched  and  grimed,  and  more  than  that,  I  sees  the 

copper  slap 
Right  on  her   head,  for  all  the  world  like  a  percussion 

copper  cap. 
Well,  I  crooks  her  little  fingers,  and  crumps  them  well 

up  together, 
As  humanity  pints  out,  and  burnt  her  nostrums  with  a 

feather  : 
But  for  all  as  I  can  do,  to  restore  her  to  her  mortality, 
She  never  gives  a  sign  of  a  return  to  sensuality. 
Thinks  I,  well  there  she  lies,  as  dead  as  my  own  late 

departed  mother, 
Well,  she'll  wash  no  more  in  this  world,  what  ever  she 

does  in  t'other. 
So  I  gives  myself  to  scramble  up  the  linens  for  a  minute, 
Lawk,  sich  a  shirt !  thinks  I,  it's  well  my  master  wasn't 

in  it ; 
O  !  I  never,  never,  never,  never,  never,  see  a  sight  so 

shockin'  ; 
Here  lays  a  leg,  and  there  a  leg  —  I  mean,  you  know, 

a  stocking  — 
Bodies  all  slit  and  torn  to  rags,  and  many  a  tattered 

skirt, 
And  arms  burnt  off.  and  sides  and  backs  all  scotched 

and  black  with  dirt  : 
But  as  nobody  was  in  'em  —  none  but  —  nobody  was 

hurt  ! 
Well,  there  1  am,  a-scrambli'ig  up  *.he  things,  all  in  a 

lump. 
When,  mercy  on  us  '.  such  a  g'osr*   <c  i"**ke*  a»*  heart 

to  jump. 


LINES  TO  A  LADY.  '305 

And  there  she  is,  a-lying  with  a  crazy  sort  of  eye, 
A-staring  at  the  wash-house  roof,  laid  open  to  the  sky ; 
Then  she  beckons  with  a  finger,  and  so  down  to  her  I 

readies, 
And  puts  my  ear  agin  her  mouth  to  hear  her  dying 

speeches, 
For,  poor  soul !  she  has  a  husband  and  young  orphans, 

as  I  knew ; 
Well,  Ma'am,  you  won't  believe  it,  but  it's  Gospel  fact 

and  true, 
But  these  words  is  all  she  whispered  —  '  Why,  where  is 

the  powder  blew  ?  ' " 


LINES   TO   A   LADY 

ON    HER   DEPARTURE    FOR   INDIA. 

Go  where  the  waves  run  rather  Ilolborn-hilly, 
And  tempests  make  a  soda-water  sea, 
Almost  as  rough  as  our  rough  Piccadilly, 
And  think  of  me  ! 

Go  where  the  mild  Madeira  ripens  Iter  juice, — 
A  wine  more  praised  than  it  deserves  to  be ! 
Go  pass  the  Cape,  just  capable  of  ver-juice, 
And  think  of  me ! 

Go  where  the  tiger  in  the  darkness  prowlcth, 
Making  a  midnight  meal  of  lie  and  she; 
Go  where  the  lion  in  his  hunger  howleth, 
And  think  of  me  ! 


(506  LINKS  TO  A   LADY. 

Go  where  the  serpent  dangerously  coileth, 
Or  lies  along  at  full  length  like  a  tree, 
Go  where  the  Suttee  in  her  own  soot  broileth, 
And  think  of  me  ! 

Go  where  with  human  notes  the  parrot  dealeth 
In  mono-pollyAogue  with  tongue  as  free, 
And,  like  a  woman,  all  she  can  revealeth, 
And  think  of  me  ! 

Go  to  the  land  of  muslin  and  nankeening, 
And  parasols  of  straw  where  hats  should  he, 
Go  to  the  land  of  slaves  and  palankeening, 
And  think  of  me  ! 

Go  to  the  land  of  jungles  and  of  vast  hills. 
And  tall  bamboos  —  may  none  bamboozle  thee  ! 
Go  gaze  upon  their  elephants  and  castles, 
And  think  of  me! 

Go  where  a  cook  must  always  be  a  currier, 
And  parch  the  peppered  palate  like  a  pea, 
Go  where  the  fierce  mosquito  is  a  worrier, 
And  think  of  me  ! 

Go  where  the  maiden  on  a  marriage  plan  goes, 
Consigned  for  wedlock  to  Calcutta's  quay, 
Where  woman  goes  for  mart,  the  same  as  man  goes, 
And  think  of  me  ! 

Go  where  the  sun  is  very  hot  and  fervent, 
Go  to  the  land  of  pagod  and  rupee, 
Where  every  black  will  be  your  slave  and  servant, 
And  think  of  me. 


BEFLECTIONS  OS   A   SEW-TEAB'S  DAY.  607 


REFLECTIONS   ON  A   NEW-YEAR'S  DAY. 

Yes,  yes,  it's  very  true,  and  very  clear, 
By  way  of  compliment  and  common  chat, 
It's  very  well  to  wish  me  a  New  Year, 
But  wish  me  a  new  hat! 

Although  not  spent  in  luxury  and  ease, 
In  course  a  longer  life  I  won't  refuse  ; 
But  while  you're  wishing,  wish  me,  if  you  please, 
A  newer  pair  of  shoes  ! 

Nay,  while  new  things  and  wishes  are  afloat, 
I  own  to  one  that  I  should  not  rebut  — 
Instead  of  this  old  rent,  to  have  a  coat, 
With  more  of  the  New  Cut! 

O  yes,  'tis  very  pleasant,  though  I'm  poor, 
To  hear  the  steeple  make  that  merry  din ; 
Except  I  wish  one  hell  was  at  the  door, 
To  ring  new  trousers  in  ! 

To  he  alive  is  very  nice  indeed, 
Although  another  year  at  last  departs  ; 
Only  with  twelve  new  months,  I  rather  need 
A  dozen  of  new  shirts. 

Yes,  yes,  it's  very  true,  and  very  clear, 
By  way  of  compliment  and  common  chat, 
It's  very  well  to  wish  me  a  New  Year, 
But  wish  me  a  new  hat  ! 


G08 


RONDEAU, 


RONDEAU. 

EXTRACTED   FROM   A    WELL-KNOWN   ANNUAL. 

Curious  reader,  didst  thou  ne'er 
Behold  a  Worshipful  Lord  May'r 
Seated  in  his  great  civic  chair 
So  dear? 

Then  cast  thy  longing  eyes  this  way, 
It  is  the  ninth  November  day, 
And  in  his  new-born  state  survey 
One  here  ! 

To  rise  from  little  into  great 
Is  pleasant  ;  hut  to  sink  in  state 
From  high  to  lowly  is  a  fate 
Severe. 

Too  soon  his  shine  is  overcast 
Chilled  by  the  next  November  blast ; 
His  blushing  honors  only  last 
One  year. 

He  casts  his  fur  and  sheds  his  chains, 
And  moults  till  not  a  plume  remains  — » 
The  next  impending  May  distrains 
His  gear. 

He  slips  like  water  through  a  sieve  — 
Ah  —  could  his  little  splendor  live 
Another  twelvemonth  —  he  would  give 
One  ear  ! 


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This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 

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y^b 


s   to 


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